Wish You Were Here

by Stewart O'Nan

  “God’s sake,” she said, and Rufus groaned in protest, but she still was not convinced she was alone.

  She sat there waiting for the next footfall as the rain picked up again, a handful of acorns lobbed onto the roof. The thunder had frightened her, and now her blood seemed to pulse in several different parts of her head, like heat lightning firing the sky. She imagined someone outside, a faceless man in a slicker, the muddy prints from his boots filling with water.

  Ridiculous. Rufus was old but he could still hear better than she could. It was just the thunder, and her being excited about going tomorrow.

  She’d moved from her warm spot, and as she settled back in, the sheets were cold on her arms. She’d reached for Henry—wasn’t that funny. Even now she expected him to protect her.

  She could hear her own breathing, and stopped. In the cup of her ear pressed against the pillowcase, her heartbeat scratched at the fabric like someone approaching over a crust of snow. She shifted to get rid of it, lay with her nose pointed toward the ceiling, knowing she’d never fall asleep in this position. When she and Henry slept together, they ended up with him tucked behind her, his stubbled chin pricking her shoulder, his breath warm on her neck, an arm crooked around her ribs.

  It had not been so long ago, she knew, yet it seemed she’d been alone forever, futilely trying to heat their big bed with just her own dwindling body. It was last fall, and now it was August. Not even a year. She rolled on her side, slowly, trying not to stir the chilly air under the covers. Rufus sighed, the rain abated, and then the house was still again, all but her mind, slapping like a loose shutter in the wind.

  Wednesday

  1

  Lise was up with the boys and beat everyone to the shower, even Ken. It was Wednesday, past halfway. Today would be easy, the ride eating up time, and she was glad to escape the enforced intimacy of the cottage, to turn her mind to something less demanding than his family. She could see beyond Niagara Falls to Saturday, packing the car and heading back to Massachusetts, to the crammed mailbox, the answering machine blinking with calls. Rinsing the conditioner from her slick hair, she thought she ought to feel guilty about how much she was looking forward to it, but shrugged that off. The stink of the water, the crystallized mineral deposits on the stall walls, the dark bracelet of hair ringing the drain—none of it could discourage her this morning.

  “Come on, let’s go, up up up,” she taunted, getting dressed, Ken groaning at her enthusiasm, Meg turning her face away. From their sleeping bags the girls eyed her with disdain. “Better get your buns out of bed if you want pancakes.”

  “What kind?” Ella asked, stretching.

  “Whatever kind we have. This isn’t Perkins.” She high-stepped over them and pounded down the stairs for effect.

  Sam was still in his pajamas, playing his Game Boy.

  “Go get dressed,” she said. “And wash that crud off your face, I can still see it.” He started to complain but she cut him off. “Go now. You don’t want to mess with me today.”

  With a twinge, she saw Emily’s coffee cup next to the sink. She’d really thought she had a shot at beating her. But there were no breakfast dishes to accuse her of sleeping in, and she ransacked the cupboard for a yellow box of Bisquick.

  “There you go,” she said, cheering herself along, and swung around the door to the fridge.

  Milk, eggs, margarine. She spun the lazy Susan and found a bowl the right size.

  As she laid everything out on the counter, she noticed the flowers she’d bought at the farm stand sticking out of the trash, the stems still wet. “Nice,” she said, but resisted pulling them out to see if they were really dead. It had been four days, she didn’t care.

  Emily walked in as she was whisking the lumpy batter and stopped dead in the middle of the floor, shocked. “What’s the occasion?”

  “No occasion,” Lise said, “just making pancakes. Would you like some?”

  “I’ve had a muffin, thanks.”

  “You wouldn’t have any chocolate chips?”

  “I don’t believe so.”

  “Oh well.”

  And still Emily didn’t move, stuck there in the middle of the floor, staring at her as if she were on fire. Lise resisted turning and leveling her with a look, instead projected herself into the car, the fallen barns and stony hillsides passing with the miles, the hours and the day wasting away. She churned the batter, her arm hard. The powdery clumps of flour were breaking up, being absorbed. She turned the lazy Susan again and found a cast-iron skillet.

  “You don’t need to grease it,” Emily coached.

  “I wouldn’t,” Lise said cheerily. She had her own heavy set at home, picked up piecemeal year after year at the flea market. Lise knew Emily would say the same thing to Meg—to anyone who trespassed in her kitchen. Lise switched on a burner and waited, as if her gaze would make the coil glow. She would not let Emily get to her so easily.

  Behind her, Emily sighed. “Wouldn’t you know, it’s recycling day.”

  “I can do it,” Lise volunteered. “You just put it out by the road.”

  “By the mailbox. You have to separate the glass and the plastic and put the magazines and newspapers in different bags. I’ll do it. You’re making breakfast.”

  “It’s no problem,” Lise insisted, suspecting Emily of stringing her along.

  “What about the pop cans and beer bottles—should we put them out or will someone take them back?”

  “I’ll take them back.”

  “Maybe we should make a special place for them in the garage. Does that sound like a good idea?”

  “Sure,” she said, and went back to tending her pancakes. Once the screen door swung shut behind Emily, she let herself exhale.

  “Where’s breakfast?” Sam asked, sliding across the dirty linoleum in his socks.

  “Didn’t you wear that shirt yesterday?”

  “We didn’t play outside.”

  “Go put on a clean one, please.”

  Alone, she stared down into the skillet, smoke rising from the black metal. Bubbles opened in the soft face of the batter, releasing steam. She tested the edges with her spatula, then flipped them, turned the oven on to warm.

  Outside, Emily was lugging the recycling bin up the drive.

  Lise punched the screen open with the heel of her hand. “I’ll do that.”

  “I’ve got it,” Emily called back.

  “Just incredible,” she said into the skillet, shaking her head, then caught herself, stopped, taking a deep breath and standing bolt upright.

  She wouldn’t play that game, not today. And honestly, she wanted to feel sorry for Emily, it was just that Emily made it so hard. All last fall, Lise had to remind herself to be nice to her, and then Emily seemed to take advantage of it, tearing down her Christmas dinner in front of everyone. Lise needed to be bigger, but she wasn’t like Ken, she couldn’t just slough that stuff off, pretend it didn’t hurt her.

  She’d burned the second set. She poured another pair and watched the batter spread, resenting the power Emily had over her emotions.

  “Are the pancakes ready yet?” Sam asked, wearing his gray Nomar shirt that was too small.

  “Two minutes. Go tell your father.”

  “You don’t mind taking those bottles and cans back?” Emily asked when she came in.

  “We have to go to Wegmans anyway to load up on stuff for the trip home.”

  “You might have to go before that. They’re piling up pretty fast.”

  “Not a problem.”

  “When I was a child they were only a penny. It’s not such a jump considering the price of everything else.”

  Lise nodded, concentrating on her pancakes, and Emily made her exit. She was like a little kid, Lise thought, always having to have the last word.

  There was syrup in the fridge door, but they’d need to get more soon—put it on the list. She told Justin to pour three milks for now and leave the jug out. Yes, he could have juice, but only aft
er he finished his milk. He asked it like she might yell at him. He was a fragile kid, timid. For all Sam’s problems, she was glad he was hers.

  The boys were almost done when Ken came down, and she was doing the dishes when the girls finally showed. She gave them sufficient grief before telling Ella to get the ones in the oven and to be careful of the plate. Arlene returned from walking the dog and said she didn’t need any, only if there were some left over.

  “I made enough for everyone,” Lise said.

  They would get off early, even with Meg dragging her ass. Ella was worried about leaving Rufus alone all day, but Emily said he was used to it, he’d sleep. The idea appealed to Lise. She could recline her seat and sleep in the car all the way there. Ken would want to drive anyway, with the girls chattering in the back. At the falls, she’d be busy with the kids. Nap on the way back, eat dinner, read her book.

  She wondered aloud what the weather was going to be like tomorrow.

  “It’s supposed to clear off,” Arlene said. “Eighty degrees and sunny.”

  “Gotta get out there and hit ’em,” Ken said.

  “The place will be an absolute madhouse,” Emily said.

  “It’ll be worse on Friday,” Lise reasoned, “with everyone down from Buffalo.”

  Finally Meg had her act together, and they told the boys to at least try to pee. They had to leave by the kitchen door, something to do with the dead bolt, and then Emily had forgotten to turn on the answering machine. “In case there’s an emergency,” she said, though the whole family was split between the two cars.

  When Emily came out again, she made straight for the 4Runner and got in back, Sarah scooching over so she’d fit. “I’m sorry,” she explained to the back of Ken’s head (as if Lise weren’t looking directly at her), “but I cannot passenge while your sister’s driving, I’m simply not strong enough. I hope you girls don’t mind.”

  “No,” Sarah and Ella said.

  “Good. Now I can catch up on all the gossip.”

  Lise rearranged herself so she faced the front, giving Ken a sideways look which he returned, as if to say it wasn’t that bad, or that, yes, he knew, but somehow he’d make it up to her. They were in the lead, and pulled out first. She felt bad for Arlene, stuck with the boys and all the garbage in Meg’s car.

  “How are you going?” Emily asked, as if she knew a quicker way.

  “Ask the navigator,” Ken said.

  “I don’t know,” Lise preempted her.

  “You should be able to go right up 90.”

  She shuffled through the maps in the dash—everything was New England—and then, before panic set in, remembered New York was in the door, turned inside out so they could track their progress on the way across.

  “How far is it?” Ella asked, making her turn the map over noisily and scan the mileage chart.

  “About an hour and a half, but that’s going fifty-five.”

  “How fast are you going to drive?” Emily asked, as if they were in danger. “I’ve heard these things tip over.”

  Ken checked Lise to make sure she wasn’t going to jump on it, then said, “We haven’t rolled it yet.”

  “Well, be careful.”

  “I always am.”

  “I’m serious,” Emily said.

  “So am I,” Ken said, testy.

  He braked for the highway, waited for a truck to pass, then turned on. Rain dimpled the ponds on the golf course. Lise expected Emily or Ken to say something about playing tomorrow, whether the course would be in shape—as a peace offering, just to break the silence. When neither of them apologized, Lise was secretly pleased, the way she was on those rare occasions he disciplined the children. For once she didn’t have to be the bitch.

  2

  Ever since his father mentioned it, Sam wanted to go up in the thing that looked like a space station, but Aunt Margaret didn’t know anything about it, and Justin was no help. He wished Ella was with them. She’d know.

  “The tall thing,” Sam said. “There’s a restaurant in it that goes around. The Sky Something.”

  “Sorry,” Aunt Margaret said.

  “I think I know what he’s talking about,” Aunt Arlene said, and looked back at him. “A big silver tower? On the Canadian side?”

  “Can we eat lunch there?”

  “I don’t know,” Aunt Margaret said, trying to ignore him like his mother did when she was driving. “I don’t know what Grandma or your father have planned. You can ask your father when we get there.”

  “I’d like to too,” Justin said.

  “I hear you, but I am not making any promises to anybody about anything.”

  “I’d like to see the view from there,” Aunt Arlene said. “I’d think it would be spectacular.”

  “Spectacularly crowded,” Aunt Margaret said.

  “I’m not sure that can be avoided.”

  “I guess not.”

  Sam gave Justin a high five.

  “Hey,” Aunt Margaret said, catching them in the mirror. “What did I say? No promises. I don’t want to hear any grumping if we don’t go there.”

  He wished Uncle Jeff was here. He’d let them go. Now he’d have to ask his father, who would ask his mother, which meant they probably wouldn’t.

  Aunt Arlene said they could see Lake Erie, but all he saw was construction, yellow bulldozers and brown gouges in hillsides, piles of white pipes. Aunt Arlene pointed out apple orchards and vineyards like they were on a field trip and had to remember everything for a test.

  “There’s the lake—there,” Aunt Arlene pointed.

  It was just a blue line behind the electric wires and only showed for a second, then it was back to nothing, just trucks and cars, their lights shining in the rain.

  “Can we play our Game Boys?” Sam asked.

  “You couldn’t leave them at home?” Aunt Margaret said.

  “Please?” Justin asked.

  She made them wait like it was a tough decision, the windshield wipers moving faster than they had to, squeaking against the glass. Sam knew to be quiet until she turned them down.

  “One hour total, no more. When we get there, you leave them in the car. And no sound.”

  “Thank you,” Justin said.

  “Sam? What do you say?”

  “Thank you,” he said, but he already had it on, and she was speaking from another world.

  3

  “There goes the Bills’ training camp,” Ken said, “the losers,” but no one laughed.

  “They really seem to be going downhill,” his mother said, “if their game against the Steelers is any indication.”

  Beside him, Lise remained silent, a bomb waiting to go off, and he felt obligated to say something, if only to be polite.

  “Yeah,” he said, “I’m afraid they’re dead meat,” then immediately regretted it.

  Since his father died, he was acutely aware of using certain words around his mother. On the phone, they popped up as if he were purposely trying to torture her, yet she never commented on it. He supposed the effect was like him hearing the word “cancer” or seeing terminal patients on ER—a numbness and then relief once it had passed and he could slip back into everyday forgetfulness, his father not dead, just a long-distance call away, probably working in the basement or lying on the couch in his den, reading one of his historical novels about the sea.

  Maybe this was his way of reminding himself that he really was dead, asking his mother to verify that impossible fact. Perhaps, he thought.

  “The Steelers aren’t much better, I’m told,” his mother said.

  4

  Emily didn’t remember the skyline, or any of the highways that looped them around the soggy downtown, and yet somehow they must have come this way. The roads were new, and most of the buildings, blue mirrored cubes and concrete boxes blank as graph paper. It was like Pittsburgh. The mills were gone, the rail yards obsolete, replaced by economic rhetoric, neighborhoods like the Hill and Braddock gutted, only pensioners left, the city
grown old. It was a mistake to have come at all, she thought.

  Their first day as husband and wife, they woke up early and made love again, and then Henry had driven the entire six hours from Pittsburgh while she fiddled with the radio, both of them singing along, pinching and prodding each other, making fun of the four-corners trout-stream towns she knew too intimately, being silly. The only person she’d ever slept with besides her mother was Jocelyn, freezing winter nights in their walk-up, and the presence of Henry in bed disconcerted her. Between the lack of sleep and her giddiness, the drive seemed an endless carnival ride. They stopped for lunch in the Allegheny Forest, laying a blanket in the shade of fragrant pines, and made love again, the trees rising over Henry’s shoulders like spires. She imagined the state ranger would let them go if they explained they were just married, showed him the clean marks the shaving cream left on the car. They ate, ravenous, shoving handfuls of grapes in each other’s mouths, crushing them on their faces, a burlesque of some decadent Roman movie they’d seen, Ingrid Bergman in a sheet and sandals. She’d never laughed so much in one day.

  Now, surrounded by her family, she thought it was not a loss. She had had that time, and it was still hers, if only in her memory. It did no good to compare what was present with what was gone.

  They turned a curve down a long, sweeping hill, and the lake spread before them, whitecapped and almost black under the dark sky. Across the water, the shoreline was mobbed with houses.

  “There’s Canada,” Kenneth informed the girls.

  “It looks like here,” Ella said.

  “It pretty much is,” Kenneth admitted.

  To Emily, newly wed, it had seemed what it was, another country, as vast and mysterious as the life she would make with this man driving beside her. It was the first time she’d ever left the U.S., and she was nervous about customs. When the uniformed guard at the booth asked what their purpose in Canada was, Henry said they were on their honeymoon, and the man ducked down to give her a smile and formally welcome them as if he were an ambassador and they were his special guests.