Chasing Days

by Deirdre Riordan Hall

  Grady breaks the silence. “Searching for any nudibranchs in the future?” he asks.

  “I suppose there are more to find if you’re patient and persistent enough.”

  Joss sits down on my other side and Grady’s hand loosens around mine. I give it a squeeze, not letting go. I take Joss's hand in my other one. Only this time, I’m not torn. I’m me. I am free to be myself. But that's not what tonight is for, right now, we need each other to laugh and cry with, to lean on, make mistakes and be forgiven.

  “Crap, looks like Augie is about to—” Grady says before Joss interrupts him. “Entertain us,” she says at the same time he says, “Do something stupid.” Then there’s a stream of what looks like shaving cream. His brothers have cans and everyone in front of the makeshift stage is streaked white.

  I shake my head and say, “What will he do without us next year?”

  “Oh, I’m sure he has plans for world domination, starting with the incoming freshman,” Grady says confidently.

  “He’ll miss you,” Joss says.

  Grady smirks. "He'll certainly miss you."

  “I’m going to miss us,” I say. And they both sling their arms around me, and then Grady slowly takes his away, looking sheepish.

  “It’s okay. We’re friends,” I say, pulling him closer. “Tonight, we’re all friends.”

  Heather approaches, smiling broadly. I wonder if Sherman had second thoughts about the break up. She calls, “Rosa and Annie Lemon, the doctors gave both their families good news.”

  A crowd gathers, some slurring questions, others cheering. I imagine we’re all going to be hoarse in the morning if the Westings don't call holler over the fence or call the police to shut us up.

  H fills us in on how they’re out of intensive care and will be able to have visitors in a few days.

  Everyone chatters with relief before the music resumes.

  I look at all the glowing faces, the same ones I’ve seen grow up, cry, celebrate, get frustrated, and now we’re leaving, going our own ways, each of us following our own compasses.

  This has been a long, slow goodbye. I'm so grateful to have tonight, in all its wild simplicity, grace, and joy, and I realize, this life, for all the small and seemingly insignificant flashes and breathtaking, soul staggering, larger than life moments really, truly, is epic.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  ☼

  Sunday

  The Day After

  I wake with an aching head to a honking horn. I can’t imagine anything more punishing. I flop onto my belly and burrow under my pillow. Then a chorus of voices calls, “Willa, Willa, Willa.”

  I moan.

  It comes again, louder this time, and among my mother and father’s voices, I pick out a distinct baritone and a chipper British accent repeating my name. I toss the curtain aside. Before I look into the driveway, I glimpse Teddy’s room. The drapes are wide, revealing his empty bed and cleared bureau. The walls are bare; there’s no evidence that he went to see Rent off-Broadway two years ago. There’s no dusty corner stuffed with his art supplies and half-finished projects. If I didn’t know better, I’d figure he’d finally done his laundry instead of wearing his clothing until it had memorized the contours of his body.

  The emptiness causes tears to prick the corners of my eyes. It’s as if Teddy erased himself. I wonder if he stayed up all night and packed or if he’d started days ago, quietly fitting his history into suitcases and boxes. It breaks my heart that I didn’t notice. I wonder who else may not have noticed. I train my eyes on the lower level at the kitchen window, listening and scanning carefully. An empty coffee mug is in the sink and a folded newspaper sits on the table. There’s no one making hysterical phone calls or crying softly at the dinette over Teddy's absence.

  “Willa,” my dad says, appearing in my bedroom doorway, his expression the opposite of mine. “Up, up, you have surprises waiting outside.” Daisy hops up, wagging her little tail. When he jingles her leash, she rushes up to him. She adores me, but my dad—the guy with allergies—, is her favorite. That might be because he leaves crumbs wherever he goes.

  I want to spend a few days crying into my pillow. Teddy’s gone, and I’m too big to crawl into my dad’s arms and have him comfort me. I glance down at the compass pendant around my neck. Letters and words from the night before come back, blinking like the stars we couldn't see. Freedom. O-K-A-Y. It’s okay. Teddy’s going to be fine, me too. We’re okay even when we think we’re not. It’s like a code I finally cracked. Nonetheless, it’s still hard to bear the emptiness of the O when I look across to his empty room.

  I stumble to my feet. “Surprises?” I try to mimic the cheerful voices I hear outside.

  “The party last night, whoa, but you just wait, there’s more,” my dad says with a grin.

  Honking and chanting continues from the driveway. My eyes grow wide.

  “Come on,” my dad urges me.

  “Does my surprise have a long beard and answer to the name Guzzi?”

  He laughs and gestures for me to climb on his back.

  "Are you sure?" I ask.

  "I'll always be here to give you a piggy back."

  I climb on and breathe in his malty-barley-scented scent.

  At the foot of the stairs, he lets out a loud groan and says, “You'll have to walk the rest of the way. But I promise it’ll be worth it.”

  I rub the remaining sleep from my eyes and take in the disaster from the night before.

  “Yes, you have some work ahead of you, but first, come on,” he says, leading me through the kitchen.

  Guzzi appears in the doorway, backlit by the golden sun already halfway up the sky. He bellows, “Willa!”

  “Uncle Guzzi, your beard,” He runs his fingers along his jawline like he’s smoothing out the coarse hair, but there isn’t any.

  “Thought I’d cleanup for my lady,” he says with a wink.

  “She’s here?”

  “Sure is. She actually helped, well, come on, they’re waiting.”

  I step over and around the remains of the party: coolers half filled with melted ice and bits of cardboard swimming inside, a string of Christmas lights tangled around the back of an overturned chair, and countless empty cups. I update my assumption from the night before: the party was every bit as wild and fun as the others I went to in the last weeks, but the memory already has a place much closer to my heart. I catch snapshots of live music and dancing, laughter and lightness.

  In the driveway, my mother stands next to a tall woman with dark brown glistening hair, poufed up around her slender face. It’s a modest afro to Ziggy's wild one. Her grin is friendly then turns to loving when Guzzi appears beside me.

  “Fiona, I’d like you to meet Willa,” he says.

  “I’ve heard so much about you.” Her voice is like the reader of an audio book. If she’s shacked up with Guzzi and is ready to marry his gruff, unique, eccentricity, I can’t help but wonder about her stories.

  “Willa, meet your future aunt, my wife, my spirit, my love.”

  She doesn’t look the slightest bit embarrassed, but affectionately says, “Arlo.” She arches an eyebrow like those are words reserved for the bedroom only.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” I say.

  She pulls me in for a hug and I instantly know we’ll make great family. She smells like sandalwood and stability, a perfect match for my uncle and his salty, motor-oil fueled wanderlust.

  Next to Guzzi’s motorcycle, there’s a sable colored Mercedes, at least twenty years old. It smells like French fries. I’m suddenly hungry.

  “Did you guys drive all night?” I ask.

  “No, we stayed at the Barnacle B&B,” Guzzi says. “We heard there was a rager here though.” He laughs. "Came back to help get things started at Beacon Brewery, but also to see you. Congrats. You did it.”

  “Thanks.”

  "In addition to fixing up the place with Guzzi's help, we have a lot of work ahead of us," my dad says. "Thankfully, we a
lso have an apprentice."

  "Kurt…" My mother bounces on her toes, as if she might start jumping up and down any second. She tips her head in my dad’s direction.

  “Oh, right.” He dashes back in the house.

  I try to make sense of the scene as we stand outside, me in my pajamas and my hair piled high on my head. I glance over my shoulder, but there’s no Grapesicle in the neighboring driveway.

  My dad appears with a giant bow and pops it on the roof of the car. Then he dangles a set of keys in front of me.

  “This one,” he says, pointing to a familiar key, "is for the house; you always have home to return to. This one," he says, holding an old-fashioned silver key, “is for your heart.” Engraved on it are the words The Key to Willa’s Heart. “We know how brave you’ve been. Now you’ll have twice the competition for that great big ticker in your chest. You make sure this key goes to the worthiest person.”

  I look from my mom to my dad. “That’s the cheesiest and sweetest thing I’ve ever heard.” I throw my arms around them and snuggle close.

  “You stink, honey,” my mom says, pulling away.

  “Sorry.” I curl my arms in front of my chest. "I need to shower."

  “Come here.” She hugs me again anyway.

  “This last key,” she says once she releases me, "is for your new car. It’s an oldie but goodie, and Guzzi and Fiona happened to know someone who converted it from diesel to grease, so you have an environmentally friendly and economical vehicle to…”

  “Bring you home whenever you want or take you wherever you want to go.”

  I rub my fingers over the compass around my neck.

  “Go on, start it up,” my dad says, putting the keys in my hand.

  “Seriously? You guys trust me with this thing?”

  “We trusted you with a different set of four wheels and no seatbelt,” he says, referring to my skateboard.

  “Yeah, but I wore a helmet.”

  “Sometimes,” my mom says, cocking an eyebrow.

  “Wow, really a car?” I say again in disbelief.

  My dad holds the driver’s side door open for me.

  I slide across the smooth seat and rub my hands over the wheel. The interior smells new and old and like fried food and air freshener all at the same time. I put the key in the ignition and let it run for a moment. I can’t imagine backing out of this driveway and going somewhere, on my own, but that’s exactly what I’m going to do. I’m going to visit Teddy and Grady. I'll offer my time and compassion to young people who need help finding their compass. I might even visit Joss at Stanford, and I’m definitely going to come home as often as possible and help my mom and dad at the brewery. I take the compass from around my neck and wrap the chain around the rearview mirror.

  Uncle Guzzi slides into the passenger seat. He has a box in his lap. “This was a collaborative effort, we all chipped in and this," he shakes the box, "we all contributed to it, too." He clicks in a cassette tape and turns the volume up. “We each made you a mix and,” he peers into the box, “have donated probably every remaining cassette tape from nineteen-eighty-five to nineteen-ninety-five. I don’t think they even make them anymore.” He lists off a few bands. “These are the classics. Back in the day you would have been the coolest and weirdest chick, cruising around in a grease car with the stereo cranked.”

  My mom’s head pops in the window on one side and Fiona, my dad, and Daisy get in the back seat.

  “She is the coolest,” my mom says. “You’re the weirdest, move over, bro,” my mom says with laughter in her voice.

  “Where to?” I ask.

  “The Brewery, we have to show Fiona what she’s gotten herself into,” Guzzi says.

  “But first, I’m starving.” My stomach growls as if to make the point for me.

  My mom leans over and smirks. “Breakfast on the beach?”

  “Sure, where should I stop?”

  “I already packed a picnic. It’s in the trunk,” my mom says. “Doughnuts, breakfast burritos, fruit salad, the works.”

  “Breakfast at the Brewery on the beach?” my dad says, his words filling with a smile. "I like the sound of that. Hopefully there will be many of those in the future."

  “Good plan, but I haven’t gotten dressed yet,” I say. “Or had coffee.” Then I put the car in gear. “Whatever. I don’t care. I can do all that anytime.” Because this, again, is a moment I don't want to let slip away.

  After breakfast, we let the ocean’s magnitude make us feel appropriately small and yet like everything we do has immense importance.

  Uncle Guzzi puts one arm around me and the other around Fiona. My mom leans on my other shoulder and my dad clasps her around the waist. Daisy yaps at the seagulls and dodges the incoming waves.

  “You’re a pioneer now,” Guzzi says. “Go forth young woman.”

  “You’re trailblazing your own path. And we couldn’t be happier,” my dad adds.

  I decide, right then, to trust my inner compass, no matter what. It won’t steer me wrong, it wouldn’t, and it couldn’t, not with this amazing constellation of people helping me navigate.

  “So now what?” my mom asks.

  I sigh. “Yesterday and today were monumental, but after I shower and clean up the house, I think, I’m going to… Let myself marinate in all this.” I gesture vaguely. "And then tomorrow, it's on to daring and amazing things."

  The lapping waves bury our feet. Seagulls squawk for leftovers.

  “Thank you,” I say, wishing there were more words to express my gratitude for the car, but even more for their love and belief in me. “I love you guys,” I say, “Thanks for never letting me forget that.”

  ☼

  After I restore our backyard, kitchen, and living room to its regular state of familiar disarray, I grab my skateboard. I consider taking my new set of wheels to show Joss, but I need one last ride on my board before I get behind the wheel as an official automobile owner.

  I roll past Teddy’s house, wondering where he is right now, what his new place at Jerusha’s looks like, what wall or window he’ll look out first thing every morning when he wakes up. A road trip to Rhode Island will definitely be in my near future.

  I continue down Druery Lane, past houses and fences and lawn ornaments that I trust will be there whenever I come this way again. I keep an eye out for the Muffin Man, just in case.

  I skate along the waterfront, inviting the salt air to saturate my senses, letting the magnanimity settle and make room for regular days where I’ll do mundane adult things like paying bills and folding laundry while I also work to change the world, one slice of cake at a time. Every day no matter how simple or epic is the first day of the rest of my life: a play, a parade, an opportunity. And hopefully, lots and lots of cake. Because I can have my cake, eat it, just not all of it, because I want to share it too.

  A blue Mustang hulks in a parking space ahead of me and a slim figure leans against the hood, gazing seaward. His surfboard rests against the cement wall. He turns when my wheels clickety clack in his direction.

  “Hey,” he says. His pensive expression lifts into a smile. “Whatcha doing?”

  “Clearing my head. Skating.”

  “Cool.”

  In the rush of the last twenty-four hours, I’ve come to understand that I’m not picking a guy or a girl, not Grady or Joss. This isn't about me being bisexual, not able to make a commitment, or being a slut like the girls in the bathroom said. I'm not a stereotype nor am I defying assumptions about what it is to be bisexual. This is about me committing to myself. Sure, I want to be friends with Grady and Joss and see what happens, moment by moment. He’s not boyfriend material and that’s not really what I’m looking for. I like Joss a lot too, but she's bound for distant and great things.

  Today, I choose me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  He snaps his eyes back from the ombre blue lines connecting sky to ocean.

  “Thinking, I guess.”

  �
�About?”

  “Nudibranchs.”

  I laugh and flash him a smile.

  Grady wraps one arm around my shoulder and tugs me into a half hug. “You’re the coolest, Willa. I hope Joss or whoever else comes along realizes that.”

  I think she does, but I also know that I won’t find my coolness quotient from Grady or Joss or anyone else. It comes from inside, in that place where the key my parents gave me fits snugly.

  “It’s been real,” he says.

  “It sure has,” I answer, kicking my skateboard into my hand.

  “See you around?” he asks.

  “Definitely. I’ll be here for the summer. I got a new set of wheels. You’ll smell me coming. Grease car. Not quite like this,” I say, patting the Mustang. "And my parents' brewery, it's gonna rock."

  He smirks. “I know. I'm not sure if they told you, but I'm apprenticing with them this summer. Still starting in the fall, but maybe when I get my degree I’ll be able to combine the two."

  "They mentioned an apprentice, but didn't say who. Wow. That's cool."

  "Yeah, I can't just go and be the cookie-cutter guy in a suit my dad expects. It's fine for him, but—" He shrugs. "You know what I'm talking about."

  I nod. "I certainly do."

  "Anyway, I hope to see you again soon. You’re always welcome to hang out, listen to tunes, take a ride, and disgrace me with your complete and utter radness.”

  “It’ll be my pleasure,” I answer, taking a few steps away. I chuck my board on the ground and push off.

  Grady’s voice carries to me between the crashing waves. “Oh and hey, Willa, pay attention, things are about to get awesome.”

  I cup my hands around my mouth so he can hear me, so everyone can hear me—the ocean and sky and the very earth itself—and I shout, “Things are changing, but they're already awesome.”

  Acknowledgments

  "You don't need to find your purpose. Your purpose will find you." --Gabrielle Bernstein

  Like Willa discovered in different aspects of her life, this quote has two intertwined but equally powerful meanings for me. On the one hand, it allows me to go back in time and tell my younger, stressed out, what am I doing?!, bent into a pretzel-self that it's okay not to know exactly what I'm supposed to be doing with my life.