Wanderlove - Rachel Blaufeld

by Rachel Blaufeld

This time, it was my turn to laugh out loud. I couldn’t help myself. “In your dreams,” I told Emerson, but to be honest, I did hope she’d pick a bed, preferably with me in it.

  Mentally slapping myself for my dickish thoughts, I asked, “Why? Why that armoire?”

  “It’s silly . . . but it looks like it’s begging for memories, to be filled with a lifetime of good times, maybe a few sad moments thrown in. Don’t get me wrong, I had a great childhood, and my dad did what he could. We didn’t go to Disney World or the Grand Canyon. I didn’t have big birthday parties or sleepovers with a bunch of girls doing makeup. We lived at the beach, and we’d fly kites or go go-karting. We’d eat crabs in the summer and makes s’mores over a campfire down by the shore.”

  “Sounds like you have some pretty damn good memories.”

  She gave me a small smile, but her eyes held that tinge of sadness I’d seen before. I could tell she wanted to know her mom, make memories with her, and fill that damn cabinet with pictures and mementos. I recognized it because I’d dreamed about meeting my dad for years, and now I had. And we weren’t making any fucking memories.

  “Huh. I’ve never been to Disney World either. Wasn’t high on the list for my family. I’ve also never been to the Grand Canyon. Do you think it’s scary being at the top? You know what? Don’t answer. Let’s just go there.” I downed the rest of my bourbon and leaned back in my chair, watching her cheeks pink up.

  “We just met. We can’t go away together.”

  “Why not? I’m nice, safe . . . and I have a black Amex card,” I teased, winking.

  “I wasn’t even allowed to spend the night with my high school boyfriend. Now I’m going to jet off to a different state, a different time zone, with a guy? My dad would freak.”

  “What about Robby?” I leaned forward, his name coming out with a small snarl. “Would he freak?”

  After taking a long sip of her coffee, Emerson said, “About that. We’re over. I guess it’s good we never really started. Apparently, I’m an embarrassment to him. I guess you were right . . . he wasn’t confused over me. It seems my not going to school is a deal breaker where he’s concerned.”

  “Can’t say I’m upset.” I paused, knowing I had to be slightly more transparent. “Listen, I have to be honest with you—”

  “Look, I’m sure you have someone else. I mean, why wouldn’t you?” Refusing to look at me, Emerson traced patterns on the tablecloth with her finger.

  “I don’t. I thought I did. I don’t want to lie. I had a life before being plucked out of it and dropped here. I worked, I dated a girl named Moira, and I had plans to make that my life for many years. Being here wasn’t my choice, and I was mad in the beginning, but it’s starting to look better. I do like my classes, and you. Moira and I, we had an arrangement to date other people. She’s dating, I’m dating, and now—we’ve called things off altogether.”

  Emerson was still staring at the table, making it hard to read her.

  “Look at me, say something,” I said softly.

  “Is that the truth?” She lifted her gaze, her eyes wide open and vulnerable.

  “It is. Honestly, she didn’t want me anymore. She said I’m never coming back from this adventure, and maybe she’s right. Maybe I was fooling myself, thinking I’d go back. But I can’t sit around and live off some other dude’s money forever. Which is why we have to go see Mickey soon.”

  This got me a giggle, and I released a relieved breath.

  Emerson eyed me over her coffee cup. “So, what are we? Dating?”

  “Definitely,” I said. “Want to get out of here?”

  Biting her bottom lip, she stared at me with eyes the size of coasters.

  “Not for that,” I told her. “Let’s just go walk and enjoy the night.”

  She nodded and I took her hand, leading her out into the summer night, the air heavy with humidity and promise. For the first time since my father rolled up to my house in that limo, I felt grateful for his generosity.

  My phone rang on Tuesday as I was leaving class. The end of the summer term was near, and after our date on Friday, I’d spent the remainder of the weekend studying for a series of exams.

  Em worked a double on Saturday and picked up a shift at the restaurant on Sunday, so she had to cancel our plans to get a dog. Which, admittedly, was a little nuts on my part.

  But I was homesick, and a four-legged friend would definitely ease the ache.

  “Hello,” I said into the phone, walking down the street, knowing exactly who it was. My father.

  “Price, how are you? How’s school going?”

  “Good.”

  “Look, I’m sorry that I haven’t been around. I have some personal stuff going on, plus I’m selling off a business—”

  “Look, you don’t need to make excuses,” I said, interrupting him. And I meant it.

  Jamming the phone between my neck and shoulder, I resettled my baseball cap, shoving my hair underneath. It was a nervous habit, but hearing my dad’s voice brought out all the anxiety in me. What did he really want from me?

  “I need to explain more in person,” he said. “I was thinking of coming into the city next week. I need to grab some files, and Monday is a dead day for me. Could we have dinner? Sit down so I can explain?”

  “Sure.”

  It felt rude to say no, in light of all the money he was spending on me and my current lifestyle. My mom kept telling me to enjoy it, and honestly, I was now happy that I could spend time with Emerson, and share some of the privileges he gave me with her. But at the end of the day, I was used to working for my own money, supporting myself.

  “I’ll email you the time and place,” he said.

  “Okay.”

  Geez, he’s not even going to swing by and see the place he pays for?

  A woman called out to him in the background, and my dad said he had to go. The call was over. Clearly, all my dad was interested in was paying reparations. Being a part of my life was never part of his plan, and it certainly wasn’t now.

  Deciding to grab an espresso and call Emerson when I got home, I started to think about her mom. If she’d wanted to find her daughter, wouldn’t she have?

  People only do what they want or feel they should be doing, right?

  Emerson

  I fell asleep talking to Price the night before. It felt like such a girlie thing to do, something I’d want to tell my mom about, but . . . I didn’t have a mom.

  It was now Wednesday, and I’d taken the day off to be with Bev and see her studio. She was teaching a noon class, and I was going to watch, and then we were going to go see her mom. I couldn’t stop thinking, Sheila wants me to take the painting.

  That thought was like an ever-present pounding in my head. Quite frankly, I hadn’t a clue what I would do with the painting once it was mine.

  All of a sudden, my gut clenched with fear. I should tell Bev the truth. She was my only real friend in New York City. Bev and her mom were being so kind to me—what if they decided to stop sharing information? My conscience told me I should be honest with them, but I couldn’t risk it.

  Making my way down the street after exiting the subway, I easily found Bev’s dance studio and yanked on the heavy glass door.

  “Yay! You made it.” Bev was standing in the front by the counter.

  “Told you I would.” I winked and looked around. Every inch of wall space was covered in light pink satin slippers and awards, like Best of New York, Best of Broadway, Tenth Annual Macy’s Day Parade Attendee.

  Bev grabbed my hand. “My class starts soon. Let me get you situated.”

  We walked through a parent waiting area with a two-way mirror and into the studio where ten of the tiniest ballerinas all in pale-pink leotards and white tights sat waiting for Bev.

  “Morning, ladies,” she said to the miniature people.

  They all smiled brightly, the world set in front of them.

  “My good friend, Emerson, is here today to watch you perform.” />
  “Hi, Emerson,” they sang in unison.

  “Shall we get started?”

  The girls scrambled to their feet and hurried toward the bar.

  Bev worked them through a series of footsteps, calling out different positions, and the girls responded to every command. Next, they made their way out to the middle of the floor and practiced their upcoming recital piece.

  Their adoring moms were on the other side of the mirror, watching each step carefully, hanging on every twist, turn, and plié. I couldn’t imagine a mother caring so damn much about another being, more than their own self, to want so much for another person, to fantasize about their future happiness. It seemed so foreign to me.

  “Miss Bev, dance for us!” one of the tiny girls called out after they finished their class.

  “My friend’s here today. Next week.”

  There was a collective, “Aw, please?”

  Bev blushed but didn’t meet my eye as I said to her, “I can step out?”

  Before I could stand up, a small ballerina was leaning on my knee, her bright eyes meeting mine.

  “Tell Miss Bev to dance. She’s so good.”

  I let out a big sigh. “Bev, I can’t deny this one. Give us a twirl or two.”

  “Yay!” The girls all plopped down along the wall next to me.

  “She has to change her shoes,” one of the girls said to me.

  A quick glance toward Bev confirmed their assumption.

  She stepped out of what looked like dance moccasins and slipped into her ballet shoes. After lacing them up, she performed some sort of stretching and pointing with her feet.

  Standing, Bev smoothed her lightweight skirt down and made her way to the music system. I’d never heard the music before, but it sounded like a combination of jazz and classical.

  It didn’t matter, though, because as soon as Bev started to move, the music became an afterthought. Seriously, she looked like a gazelle floating through the air, her feet lifting off the ground with ease, her low ponytail swishing behind her with every circle and turn, as if she were grace personified.

  Applause rippled through the air as she finished. The small army of tiny ballerinas jumped up and swarmed around Bev, gushing over her performance.

  When she released them and they ran out to meet their parents, Bev began straightening up the room.

  “That was incredible,” I told her. “You need to do more of that.”

  “I don’t have the time. Wish I did. But the bakery, my mom . . .”

  “Maybe I could help with the bakery?” The words burst out of my mouth on their own, as if they knew how desperate I was to be close to Sheila and my mom.

  Bev shook her head. “I couldn’t let you do that. You already work two jobs. Besides, it’s not a high-paying position.” She slung her bag over her shoulder and said, “Let’s go.”

  I followed behind her, but I couldn’t shake the idea of her giving up her dancing for her mom and the damn bakery. That wasn’t her dream.

  “Want to grab a coffee on our way?” Bev asked.

  “Sure,” I said, still deep in thought.

  Walking into the coffee shop, ordering a latte, it all felt like a dream sequence. Our feet carried us several blocks, and then Bev motioned toward a small building with a stoop out front and a few steps that led to the door. There was a buzzer for guests, but no doorman—this wasn’t a giant skyscraper like where Price lived. It was humble for New York, and it suited Bev and Sheila perfectly.

  With her coffee in one hand, Bev used her key and then pushed the door open, ushering me inside. I followed her up three flights of stairs until we stopped in front of an apartment door.

  “Come on,” she said.

  We traipsed inside, setting our bags inside the door. I followed Bev’s lead and took my shoes off.

  “Mom?” she called, making her way into the small kitchen to grab a banana.

  “In here,” Sheila called from down the narrow hallway.

  We found her in her bedroom, sitting on top of her comforter, her feet in slippers, a plush robe tied tight at the waist, and a recipe book in her hands.

  “Hi, ladies,” she said.

  “What are you doing, Mom?” Bev asked, eyeing the cookbook.

  “I’m going to come in this week and try a few new cookie recipes.”

  “Mom.” Bev sat at her feet. “No, you’re not. We have enough cookies, and Fred does a fine job baking your recipes. You need to concentrate on getting better.”

  I felt like a peeping Tom in the doorway, watching someone else’s life, smiling at their bickering and desperately wanting all that for myself.

  “I need to get out of here, do something else other than lie around like a corpse. I’m not dead yet. Right, Emerson?” Sheila looked toward me.

  “Um . . .”

  “You don’t have to answer that,” Bev said, rescuing me. “She’s worried about the bakery . . . worries it’s going to fall apart.”

  Sheila shook her head. “This is New York, Bev, you know that. A new place could open up two doors away, and we’d be crushed. We need to spark some new reviews and interest with different recipes.”

  Walking toward the bed, I found my words with a certain courage I didn’t know I had. “I was just telling Bev I could help at the bakery, and I love to cook. I could try baking. Why don’t I come in and help with the new recipes?”

  “See!” Sheila sat taller and eyed Bev. “And fresh faces, like Emerson.”

  “Of course you two gang up on me.” Bev said it with a giggle, and she didn’t seem mad.

  “Look at this one,” Sheila said as I sat down next to Bev. I wasn’t sure whether it was appropriate or not, but it felt good, like being part of a family.

  “Boyfriend cookies,” Bev read. “Hmm, do they come with a guy?”

  “Mmm, they look good, with or without a dude,” I said, peeking over her shoulder.

  “That’s because you found yourself a dude within minutes of being here.” Bev elbowed me while talking.

  “I didn’t find anyone,” I said quickly, but my heart disagreed.

  Bev scoffed. “Oh, please. I’ve seen you chatting and texting with Price on the phone, and I could feel the heat rolling off you.”

  Shelia tore her gaze away from her cookbook. “Who?”

  “Price. Some guy Emerson met and then coincidently ran into again, and now it’s a thing.”

  “Oh,” Sheila said absently, staring back at the cookbook, but I could tell her mind wandered.

  “You okay, Mom?” Bev asked, looking concerned.

  “I’m fine, baby. I was just going through some ways in my mind . . . how we could personalize these boyfriend cookies. Make them unique to us. I was thinking of caramel chips.”

  “What if you added some liquor?” I asked, ever the bartender. “You could do a happy-hour collection.

  Sheila’s face brightened. “I hadn’t thought of that, but it’s great. We could do a whole line of cookies with liquors and serve them in the evenings.”

  “First, let’s make the boyfriend cookie. Then we can start boozing it up,” Bev said.

  “Yes, Mother, dear. Whatever you say,” Sheila joked back.

  “I saw Bev dance today,” I said, feeling like it was time to shift the focus to her. “Wow, I was blown away.”

  Sheila beamed. “She’s pretty good, right?”

  I nodded. “Incredible. I don’t how she moves like that. I’d be in the hospital with a broken ankle.”

  “She’s been full of grace since day one. I keep telling her to let me hire someone at the bakery, so she can go full time to school.”

  “Mom, enough.” Bev shook her head, and some of her hair fell loose from her bun and shielded her face.

  “Oh, I almost forgot why you came by. Let me get up,” Sheila said while shooing us off the bed. After slipping out of bed, she padded off and opened a closet.

  “Here!” She pulled out the matching painting to the one at the bakery, and my mouth w
atered.

  My mom had touched this, painted this, and it was mine. It was the only thing I owned connecting me to my mom.

  “I love it! You have no idea how happy this makes me.” My hands trembled slightly when I took ownership of it.

  “Enjoy it,” Sheila said.

  “Now you have to let me help at the bakery,” I told Bev. “I can’t just accept this and not pay you back in some way.”

  “You don’t play fair,” she grumbled at me, still smiling.

  Bev was all bark and no bite like my dad, which reminded me. He didn’t deserve my cold shoulder anymore.

  I had to call Dad. Holding this painting made me ache for him in a way I never had before. He’d be furious I was here, clinging to the damn painting like it held meaning, but he’d still be happy for me. At least, I hoped he would.

  My mom didn’t deserve my respect. Dad did.

  Yet, here I was, still searching for clues, for anything to bring me closer to her.

  Holding back my emotions, I chatted more with Bev and Sheila, but all I could think about was getting this painting home and hanging it on the wall where I could look at it every day.

  Price

  It’s Sunday. You need a day off, and I need to run a few errands with you.

  I texted Emerson super early Sunday morning, before my run. Most likely, she was still sleeping, so I didn’t wait for her to answer.

  Wearing my earbuds, I took to the pavement, winding my way toward the high line. The main streets were quiet, traffic at a minimum, and I could find my way there with little problem. Once I hit it, I ran all the way to the end and back up again.

  My mind needed the exercise as much as my body. I’d been working overtime with studying, trying to make myself be upset over Moira, and counting the minutes until I saw Em.

  My phone dinged as I huffed my way down my block.

  I am off. I was going to sleep the day away.

  Pick you up in 90.

  You mean Johnny will pick me up.

  Don’t be such a know-it-all. I meant me.

  Quickly, I hit the shower, changed into jeans, boots, and a ratty white T-shirt. I didn’t need to be dressed up for where we were going. After stopping to consult with Rudy for a few minutes, I found myself unlocking the Tesla for only the second time since moving to the city. It was a far cry from my pickup truck. I felt like I was in a video game, not a damn car.