Wish You Were Here

by Stewart O'Nan

  It shouldn’t matter to him. The day was taken up. Tomorrow they were leaving, Monday he’d be at work again. If he had another week—but it was typical of him to come up with an impossible project and then not follow through. This was no different. All summer he’d gotten nothing done.

  “Gravity Hill,” Meg read, and slowed for the turn.

  It was in the middle of nowhere, marked by a blue sign like a rest area with a boxy picture of a camera on top. There was an official pull-out. A couple of chained picnic tables sat in the grass by the roadside but there were no garbage cans, and a sign at the back of the lot advertised the fine for dumping. In the past they’d all gotten out to watch, the children running alongside the car, but now Meg just stopped at the fat white decal that served as a starting line.

  “Everybody ready?” she asked.

  Nothing.

  “I said, is everybody ready?”

  “Yes!” the boys said, and she shifted into neutral and took her hands off the wheel.

  They waited. He’d actually taken pictures of this, yards of video over the years, all the different cars they’d owned. As a child, he’d watched home movies of his parents’ two-tone Chevy creeping uphill, his father waving sheepishly from the window in his Ray-Bans. His mother had her turn in a mid-sixties Cutlass, her hair an embarrassment. Even he and Meg had squared off as teenagers in their beaters, a drag race in slow motion.

  The effect had something to do with how the roadbed had been laid out and graded. The road appeared to dip between the two hills—or it only appeared that the second hill was a hill. You looked up and couldn’t see over the hump so you were tricked into thinking you were going uphill. His father could explain it. Sam and Ella knew better than to ask.

  “Are we moving at all?” Lise asked.

  “It takes longer if it’s windy,” Meg said.

  “Is it windy?”

  He zipped his window down and peered over the sill like the gunwale of a ship. The road was inching beneath the running board. “We’re going.”

  “You can barely tell,” Lise said.

  “Just wait.”

  There was a pop can on one of the picnic tables, and he imagined Tracy Ann Caler here with her family as a girl, the pictures they would have taken, pictures her parents would look at now and remember her by. He’d never known her, so how was his project supposed to be a memorial, if that’s what it was?

  He didn’t know what it was, and he was right to worry. The feeling—whatever it was—wasn’t simple. If it made him queasy, what did it do to Lise? But wasn’t that even more reason to follow it? The police would still be there when they got back.

  “I can feel it!” Justin said.

  “Now we’re going,” Meg said, though the needle she pointed to pointed to zero.

  He could feel it too, and shouted, “Here we go!”

  It seemed impossible, looking at the hill rising in front of them, but slowly the van began to freewheel, leaving the picnic tables behind, the trees creeping by on both sides.

  “Weird,” Ella said.

  Every sense said down but they were going up, or maybe it was the other way around. It was a trick, impossible except for the feeling in his stomach that they were falling—faster and faster, as if they couldn’t stop. Meg held her hands in the air to prove she wasn’t doing anything. They all clapped as they gathered speed, even the girls, all of them headed for the crest, drawn on by invisible forces.

  7

  The parking lot for Panama Rocks was starred with weeds. Theirs was the only car there. As a child Meg had been afraid of the place, setting nightmares here, faceless killers chasing her through the cold, mossy boulders and shadowy trees, trapping her in dead ends where she clawed her fingernails to shreds trying to climb the sheer walls. She dreaded their yearly real-life visit, the jokes that focused on Fat Man’s Misery—or worse, went unspoken, all of them sorry for her. Now she was surprised at how small and harmless it was, even quaint (for a torture chamber), a half-assed roadside attraction slowly going to seed.

  It looked closed except the front gate was tied back with a chain. There was an octagonal picnic pavilion in dark wood, and a long open barn, both overgrown and deserted, the eaves stitched with spiderwebs. The snack counter by the entrance was blocked off with plywood. The only person there was at the ticket window, a thin man in his sixties in a Bills cap, smoking and reading a fat Stephen King paperback. He gave them a map of the rocks, had the adults sign waivers for the children and pointed them toward the entrance.

  Inside the fence a sign warned them to stay on the designated path and not climb on the rocks. There were no pets allowed, and no disposable items of any kind. RUNNING IS DANGEROUS. THERE HAVE BEEN SERIOUS ACCIDENTS.

  “Oh great,” Lise said. “Just what a mother wants to see.”

  “The liability must kill them,” Ken said. “I don’t see how they stay in business.”

  “They’re not spending it on upkeep,” Meg said, “that’s for sure,” because the warped two-by-four railing along the trail had peeled down to the bare wood, curling flakes of white paint caught in the grass. She was sure it had been there when she was a girl, but stopped herself before her memory could restore it. It seemed wrong, being nostalgic about a place she despised. There was something insidious in the way the mind worked, welcoming anything familiar, like her sex dreams of Jeff.

  It shouldn’t matter to her what he did now. They’d been separated in every way before except legally, and yet she saw his plan to remarry as an attack on her.

  The boys ran ahead of them like dogs, and they called them back and asked them to please be careful, just as her parents had. The girls weren’t interested, sauntering along behind them, Sarah picking at her split ends. When they got home the whole Mark thing would explode. Meg was grateful she would be sober for it, but knew she would receive the brunt of her unhappiness. She deserved it, maybe even desired it, as payback. She had to be strong enough to accept that, not let things get personal, a battle of wills. She needed them to have a good year, and she thought they could now that the house thing was settled. Jeff could go fuck himself. It was just the three of them now.

  The railing ended and the trail curved downhill, rocky shortcuts connecting the switchbacks. Ken warned the boys not to wander. The signs identifying the different species of trees were barely legible. She read them and forgot them instantly. She saw a Butterfinger wrapper, picked it up and tucked it in her back pocket. Where the shortcuts crossed, the path was uneven, stony ruts cut by runoff. It was much cooler under the canopy, you almost needed a sweater. Years ago, this was when her stomach would fill with hot fluid, her bowels drop, knowing there was no turning back. “Oh come on,” her mother would encourage her, as if this was fun.

  Today she felt nothing, only a vague impatience to be home, getting ready for the beginning of school. They had to go out and buy supplies, new jeans for Justin, a good winter coat for Sarah. She could do it now without sweating every penny, all because of her mother. While she relied on that fact, she still hadn’t fully digested it. She thought this must be how it felt to win the lottery—lucky and unreal, as if everything could be taken away just as suddenly.

  She had to tell Ken the truth. Eventually, she thought. Over the phone.

  They came to the base of the trail, a wooden square with the number 1 nailed to a stake in the ground. In the birches the rocks loomed like giant heads sunk in the hillside, their lichened faces layered and stepped, dripping groundwater. Tree roots grew like vines over the greening ledges. She waved at a tangle of gnats.

  “Okay,” Ken said, unfurling the map, “let’s see what we have here. Castle Rock.”

  “Where’s the castle?” Lise asked.

  They tipped their heads and squinted, but none of them could see the resemblance.

  “Moving on,” Ken said. “Number two: the Mayflower.”

  “That one?” Meg pointed.

  “I guess.”

  The boys scooted betwe
en the huge stones, Justin trying to keep up with Sam.

  “Careful,” she called. “It’s slippery.”

  She could have sworn Fat Man’s Misery was near the end, a kind of final test, but it was early, number 4. It couldn’t have been simpler—two sheer walls that almost touched, the crevice between them Justin’s size at the bottom, outlined by sunlight from the other side. There was nothing menacing about it. If she were shorter she could squeeze through easily.

  “What’s this one?” Lise asked, and when Ken hesitated, Meg told her.

  “I could never fit through it as a kid.”

  “You never tried,” Ken said.

  “You never gave me the chance. You were too busy making fun of me, remember? Margaret’s Misery.”

  “That’s terrible,” Lise said, but he didn’t offer an apology, and Meg felt ridiculous dragging up the past when her own was such a mess. Especially with the secret she was conveniently keeping, waiting till it was safe to tell him.

  She’d tell them about Jeff and Stacey at the last second, as if it were a surprise to her.

  It had been. He’d done it just to ruin her vacation. She couldn’t believe he’d be so cruel—or yes, she could. After the last year, she could believe anything.

  They watched Sam and Justin squat down and shoulder through—Ken leaning against a tree to steady his camera—and then Sarah and Ella, that easy. The boys whooped and screamed behind the rocks, making their voices spooky, and she remembered Ken doing the same thing while she tagged along behind her parents, smoldering as she kicked at stones. Just thinking of her childhood made her feel childish. She wanted to climb up to the crack and see how big it was, maybe slither through just to prove she could. It wouldn’t change anything, and she was self-conscious with them all there. If she were alone she would probably do it and ruin her clothes and then feel stupid.

  They walked on, past Crow’s Foot and Indian Fireplace and Paradise Alley, past the Golden Gate and the Tower of Babel and Counterfeiter’s Den. By now it all looked the same to her.

  “Who came up with these names?” Lise asked.

  Ken went ahead so he could shoot from above, lying down on top of the rocks and leaning out so far that Lise yelled up, telling him to be careful.

  “I swear, he’s worse than the kids,” she said—something her mother would say of her father, that she herself had said of Jeff.

  Meg thought they had it backwards. Adults were worse. Kids couldn’t help being self-centered—needed to be. They didn’t know what would happen when they did things and how they could hurt other people. There was a difference between ignorance and stupidity.

  She wanted to be honest with Ken about the house. She thought she’d have a chance to talk with him last night. And he’d understand, that was the terrible thing. He wouldn’t resent her mother bailing her out or think she was a hypocrite, even if he did initially. Maybe that was why she held off telling him.

  Jeff she couldn’t deal with right now. She’d have to soon enough, and with all of her concentration she pushed him and Stacey out of her mind. This was her time.

  They finished the lower part of the trail and she and Lise corralled the kids and drove them uphill to the bald tops of the rocks. The path ran along the edge. It was dangerous up here, the gaps and crevices tempting, and there were no fences to stop people from jumping across. She wasn’t surprised there’d been accidents. Lise had to take Sam by the hand. Justin stayed clear. Here was the Ice Cave and the Covered Bridge, and the last one, the Gap, an anticlimax.

  “That’s all she wrote,” Ken said, and folded the brochure away.

  “I don’t know why,” Meg said. “It seemed shorter this time.”

  “It did?” Lise asked.

  “I guess I remembered it differently.”

  Once the words were out of her mouth, she realized how they sounded. She only meant that the place felt strange to her, smaller, that she couldn’t believe she’d ever been intimidated by it.

  The snack bar was closed indefinitely, much to Justin’s disgust. She remembered the wrapper in her back pocket but there was nowhere to throw it. She needed to clean the car anyway.

  She got the air going and buckled up, then made sure everyone was safe. As she pulled out she gave the place a last look. The sun warmed the trees, left everything beneath them in deep shadow—a postcard. The parking lot was empty, only the flimsy railings leading to the snack bar, the old man in the ticket window reading his Stephen King. There was nothing to be afraid of. That life was behind her now—not gone, no, it was still a part of her, but it belonged to the past, and she needed to keep it there, to relinquish her grip on it, as hard as that might be, if not impossible.

  She started off, driving along beside the barn and the picnic pavilion. “Say good-bye to Panama Rocks,” she said.

  “Good-bye!” they all hollered.

  8

  It was past twelve and they hadn’t come back yet. Emily needed to stop reading and get something to eat, but the day was too pleasant, as was the silence she and Arlene had achieved. The radio was playing a Mozart piano concerto, a big ice-cream sundae of a piece that went with the view of the lake, the shadows on the dock. It was a perfect day for golf, and she wished she and Kenneth could go again. But then, it would be an absolute zoo today, the beginning of the weekend. Maybe it was just as well.

  Henry’s shoes. She should get them before they slipped her mind.

  She had to remember the salt and pepper shakers, and the tumblers for Margaret. The red Fiestaware pitcher. She hadn’t decided about the teakettle, and she was sure she’d find things in the drawers—old church keys and nestled sets of measuring spoons that summoned up memories. There were beer cartons in the garage she could use to pack everything, wrap the breakables in newspaper. And that was just the kitchen. She hadn’t even looked at the upstairs yet.

  It was easier to lose herself in the high sky, the clouds blooming heroic above the hills, very Hudson River School. Any urge to move dissolved in this vision, her inertia sharpened and sweetened by the Mozart, and then her book seemed foolish and uninteresting, a waste of time. She needed another week here without the children.

  She wished Mrs. Klinginsmith would call already. She’d hoped— vainly—that the septic guy would come and do his thing while everyone was out, but no, she would be spared nothing. All the more reason to savor these peaceful minutes before the storm.

  She thought she was calm, considering—too calm, possibly. Her worry all along had been that she would regret selling the place when it was too late, but that wouldn’t happen, she already regretted it. She almost wanted the septic guy to find a problem—if not for Margaret.

  Beside her, Arlene shifted and her cushion farted. Rufus raised his head a second, then subsided. Emily tried to remember where she’d found the cushions, and why she’d chosen the blue roses (it was probably all they had at the Jamesway). Their faded ugliness touched her, and for a moment she thought she could use them at home, a little bit of Chautauqua in the backyard. Not seriously though—there was no room in the car.

  A breeze stirred the trees, sent leaves fluttering into the lake. She felt like a nap, but there was too much to do. She wasn’t tired, just scattered, distracted by so many loose ends and the inevitability of leaving.

  There were peaches in there that needed to be eaten, and meat from last night, and a pitcher of lemonade the children hadn’t touched.

  She couldn’t forget Henry’s plaid thermos, the one he took with him fishing—probably out in the garage. She dreaded having to burrow through that mess. It would be easier to ask Kenneth, since that was his jurisdiction.

  She remembered seeing a TV movie around Christmastime about a widow who found a cigar box of old love letters while she was going through her husband’s things, and in learning his secrets, discovered herself. Nothing like that had happened to her. Henry had been reliable to the end. He’d had time to go over their finances with her, the insurance and how the taxes would fa
ll out. Later, talking with Barney Pontzer, it all proved true, rounded off to the nearest thousand.

  She hadn’t gone through Henry’s office or pawed over his workshop yet, though occasionally she’d flick on the lights and walk through them, admiring his blotter and his circular saw (both immaculate, just as he’d left them), as if touring the house of someone famous. During his life he was steady in his enthusiasms, and they had been modest. His idea of a great treat was taking the whole family out to Poli’s or Tambellini’s, announcing it at breakfast so she wouldn’t start dinner before he got home. The only time Henry had surprised her was by dying, and she had not suddenly become a stronger person, just alone.

  From the road came the sustained squeal of brakes, a lull, then a tap on the gas, a lurch forward and the brakes again. Rufus didn’t move.

  “Mail’s here,” Arlene said without looking up from her book.

  “He’s early. Remind me to stop it tomorrow.”

  She stepped over Rufus to get to the door. The station wagon was down by the Loudermilks’, the man leaning out of his window. She approached the box slowly, as if it might explode. She wasn’t expecting anything, unless Louise had written her on her own. Overnight a spider had spun a web around the flag, trapping it against the side. She looked up and down the road, then jumped back as she opened the door.

  Nothing, just the mail—glossy coupons, dueling flyers for the Golden Dawn and the Quality Market, and the fall issue of The Navigator, the high school newsletter they received for paying their taxes every year. She ducked her head, double-checking for ants, then slapped it shut. Let the new owners worry about them. They still had to schedule a termite inspection. Maybe they’d find something then.

  Walking back to the house, she remembered taking care of her parents’ place in Kersey before it finally sold. The realtor had suggested taking up the carpet to highlight the oak floors, and the day Emily visited (she and Henry stopping by the cemetery first), she’d found it ripped up and discarded in the backyard with the old kitchen cabinets, as if the house had been skinned. She could see what they’d do to the cottage—gut it, maybe even tear it down and build new. The lot was more important, with its frontage. The buyers came from Cleveland construction money. They’d put in a new dock, probably have a massive cabin cruiser.