by Laura Dave
Then she pointed to the other woman in the classroom, outfitted in an oversized UMass sweatshirt with matching sweatpants. “And that’s Carolyn, the assistant teacher. She’s a graduate student in early education over at the university. We have her two days a week. Sometimes three. Needless to say, they are much better days.”
I smiled. “I can imagine,” I said. “I’m Annie. I’m the twins’ . . . well, I guess I’m their aunt.”
The words felt a little weird coming out of my mouth, but it was also the simplest explanation, or so I thought.
Except that Claire crossed her arms over her chest, a grin taking over her face. “I didn’t know Cheryl had a sister!” she said. “It is fantastic to meet you. I know she and Jesse are in a bit of a hard place at the moment, but she’s been checking in with me regularly. She’s a strong lady, your sister. . . .”
I shook my head, intending to correct her, and quickly. “No, I’m actually not related to—”
But, before I could finish, there was a loud bang from inside the classroom. We turned to see Sammy and Dex, still in their long winter coats—standing on either side of the boom box—now on its back on the floor.
“Oh boy,” she said. “That’s my cue. It’s really nice to meet you, Annie. I hope to see you soon.”
“I’d like that,” I said.
She started to head in, but then turned back, something occurring to her.
“Actually, you know what? Is the end of next week too soon? ”
“Excuse me?” I said.
“Well, the kids have a class trip to the Children’s Museum. The science and nature museum in Hartford?” She shook her head, as if already imagining the chaos of that. “Anyway, it’s looking like we’re a mother short for the excursion. And could definitely use the extra pair of hands. Aunts’ hands count. Would you be willing to join in? Are you still going to be in town then? ”
“I’m supposed to be, but I really never know my work schedule for sure. I’m a travel writer and I’m definitely heading back out on the road soon. I’ve actually never been on a break this long, but I just got married and . . .”
“Great! ” she said. “Then it’s settled! That’s really great. Thank you! And if you have a minute on your way out, you should head down the back stairs and check out the breezeway. The holiday art show is still up. Our art teacher, Ms. Henry, is beyond incredible. And the twins did a painting of a purple Christmas tree. It rocks!”
I laughed. “I’m sure it does.”
“Go see for yourself.” Then she pointed at my fleece as she walked back inside. “And if you’re sticking around, you need a real coat or you’ll get a bad cold. And good luck getting rid of it before spring.”
“Thanks for the advice.”
“Anytime.”
The door flew shut and I was left in the quiet hallway. I stared at the closed door for just a second—watched through the small window as she scrambled to right the boom box and get the kids dancing again. Then I headed the way she told me, down the staircase, toward the open breezeway, partly because I wanted to see the purple Christmas tree and partly because I wasn’t so anxious to head back outside in my too-light fleece.
I was glad I did. As soon as I stepped onto the breezeway, I saw how right Claire was. A truly great display of paintings and collages and charcoal drawings was taped over the windows. I was captivated, walking slowly down the hall, checking out the artwork of each grade: snowmen and reindeer, bright scenes of stick-people Thanksgiving dinners. There was also a beautiful drawing of several pears among the second-graders’ lot. (I wasn’t sure what pears had to do with the holidays, but it was beautiful nevertheless.)
I was staring so hard at the pears that it took me a minute to realize I wasn’t in the breezeway alone. There was another woman, who had made her way from the other end, trailing a metal dolly behind her. She was diminutive in a tea-length turtleneck dress and a beautiful, bright orange scarf, her long blond hair falling down her back. She was reaching high above her head to remove one of the paintings from its perch.
Even on her tiptoes, she was struggling to reach both corners at once, and was looking less than steady. So I walked over and reached for the upper left-hand corner, and the two of us pulled off the painting together.
“Oh, thank you for that!” she said, giving me a large smile as she rolled up the brown paper painting and gently placed it onto her dolly. “One down. A thousand to go.”
“Seems like I got here just in the nick of time,” I said.
She nodded, tilting her head to the side, and I couldn’t help but notice that up close she was even more striking, with birdlike features, high cheekbones, dark eyelashes.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked.
“A purple Christmas tree, I believe.”
“Ah . . .” Her smile got bigger as she pointed in the direction of several paintings a little farther down the breezeway, a forest of purple Christmas trees, grouped together under the sign KINDERGARTEN.
“I take it you know one of Claire’s students?” she said.
“Two, actually.”
“I do the best I can with them, but, this year, I got the kindergarteners in to see me twenty-four hours after they were shown Barney’s Great Adventure. What can I say?”
I laughed. “So you must be the incredible art teacher that Claire was just telling me about?”
“Art teacher, home ec teacher, currently going crazy teacher,” she said, pushing her hair behind her ears. “But I’ll gladly take Claire’s description in place of that. And who are you?”
“Annie,” I said. “Annie Adams. I just moved to town.”
“Welcome!” she said. “I had a couple of clues that you’re not from here, actually. You know, in addition to my having lived here my entire life, and the not-knowing-you part.”
“What were those?”
She pointed at my Converse sneakers, and then at my fleece. “You can get pretty sick dressed like that,” she said.
“I’m getting that idea,” I said. “I recently got married and my husband’s from here. Grew up here, actually. But, except for a work trip to the Berkshires last summer, I haven’t spent any time in the area to speak of. So I guess I’m still figuring out what it’s going to be like.”
“Cold.”
“And pretty,” I said, hopefully.
“And cold.”
Then she reached for another painting, started to pull at it. It had a blue ribbon underneath it. First prize written in gold on the front. Which was when I noticed every one of the paintings had a blue ribbon underneath it. First prize gold on all of them.
She shrugged. “There was supposed to be one winner, but I’m not a big one for competition,” she said. “So I made it a two hundred–way tie.”
“Sounds like a good solution,” I said.
“It became less of one when all of the kids began asking me which one of them won the most.” She shook her head in disbelief. “What are you going to do?”
Then, as she deposited another drawing on the dolly, I looked at the long wall, completely covered with artwork.
“You know what? I’m not in any rush. Can I give you a hand with some of these?”
She shined her smile at me, happily. “Really? You sure that you wouldn’t mind?” she said. “I was going to ask the janitor to give me a hand, then I remembered we don’t have one.”
I laughed, reaching for the painting in front of me—of two stick figures hitting turkey drumsticks—gently pulling at the tape on the corners.
“It’d be my pleasure to help out.”
She took her scarf off her neck, handed it over. “Well, please wear this while you do. I made it myself, lots of wool.”
“It’s so soft,” I said, wrapping the scarf around my neck and instantly feeling better, the cool starting to seep out of me.
“Excellent, because I cannot look at you all exposed like that,” she said. “And I’ll give you some more lessons in fin
ding warmth in Williamsburg while we work.”
“Don’t I just get more clothing?” I asked.
She sighed. “If only it were that simple.”
I smiled, looking toward the next group of paintings and realizing we were coming up on the series of purple Christmas trees. And then I was right in front of it: the double tree bearing the names SaMMMMMy and DeXXXXX. Written just like that. Sadly, they weren’t exactly good trees—even forgetting the purple. One could confuse them with flagpoles instead. Or pretzels.
I ran my fingers over the tree anyway, over the letters of their names. “These are them,” I said.
“Them who?”
“My nephews,” I said. “Sammy and Dexter Putney . . .”
“Sammy and Dexter?” she asked.
And then she went white. She went so white, right in front of my eyes, that suddenly I understood the expression “seeing a ghost.” All of a sudden, I could see one.
She stared at me for a long minute. “So are you related to Jesse’s wife or something?” she said. “You must be related to Cheryl, right? She has a stepsister, I think. Or maybe you’re just a good friend of the family. The kind of friend they call aunt . . .”
But she started talking very low. She started talking very low, and in the voice of someone who already had a question’s unfortunate answer.
“No, I’m actually married to Jesse’s brother, Griffin,” I said. “Just recently, though.”
The air started to close out of the room. I didn’t know how—or why—but I could feel it condensing around us.
“How just recently?”
“We met in Los Angeles while he was filling in at a restaurant near where I live. Or where I lived, I guess.”
I gave her a smile, but she wasn’t having it. So I kept talking.
“The whole thing happened really fast, actually . . .” I said. “I probably shouldn’t tell you how fast or you’ll get the wrong impression about me. I’ve never done anything like this before. Impulsive like this, before.” I felt myself blushing a little. “And I’ve always hated people who say things like, ‘When you know, you know.’ I’ve never just known about anything else. Not even a pair of socks.”
She was staring at me, as if with a growing level of concern that I might be a lunatic.
“Well, maybe there was one pair of socks at some point. For the gym or something . . .”
Nothing. She said nothing. I was still talking, telling her more than she could possibly want to know, more than anyone could. But I couldn’t seem to stop. I couldn’t seem to stop trying to do something to bring her color back.
Then I noticed it on the inside of her wrist—the other half of Griffin’s tattoo. The other half of the anchor. The right half. The sharper one.
“Oh my gosh, wait. You’re Gia?”
She nodded. “I’m Gia.”
“Griffin told me about you! I guess not your last name, though,” I said. “But he told me about the tattoo. I love it. I mean, I love the tattoo. But I also love that you guys did that together.”
I was still smiling. This is the worst part: I was still smiling when I said this. I didn’t quite know yet that I shouldn’t be. Then Gia, my former new friend, walked away from me. She turned and walked away from me, fast.
And I got my first idea.
13
Something else I discovered from writing “Checking Out,” something that should not be underrated, is the joy people feel when they get to pretend to be someone else for a while. When you travel, you can become anyone. No one knows you. No one is telling you who—based on your history, or their ideas about your history—they’ve decided you are. When you travel, everything is unfamiliar and possible again. Like with a brand-new job or a brand-new partner. Like with a first kiss. For a short, perfect while, you get to see yourself—you get to experience yourself—as new. Until the inevitable (and inevitability surprising) reminder: you are still you.
I walked through town in a fog, the directions to Griffin’s restaurant in my fleece jacket’s pocket, taking too many wrong turns anyway. Then I found a small, barnlike structure—slightly hidden from Main Street, unless you knew to look for it—with an amazing red chimney, scaffolding surrounding it, a sign (matching the chimney’s red) without a name on it yet, still resting on the ground by the front door, still waiting to be raised.
I walked inside—the Rolling Stones’ Exile on Main Street blasting out its glory from a floor-side stereo—to find the place midconstruction, working toward its own glory: unfinished floors and markings on the walls, electrical wires coming from the ceiling. A large, rectangular hole in the far wall that I imagined was going to be the bar area. A cool, metal chandelier waiting to be raised above it, Griffin touching its top as he talked to several men.
When he looked up and saw me standing there, he gave me a big smile and headed my way.
“You’re here,” he said.
“I’m here.”
He pulled me into the unoccupied corner, giving me a long kiss.
“Is it crazy that I missed you today?” He pulled back, taking a look at me. Then he began running his hands over my cheeks. “And why are you so cold? You can’t be dressing like that. You’re going to get pneumonia.”
“I wish everyone would stop pointing that out. And I wish it would stop getting worse.”
He looked at me, confused. “Getting worse?”
“The length of my hospital stay.”
He started laughing, which quickly turned into a cough and just as quickly turned scary, leaving me completely unsure what to do as he braced himself on his knees, trying and failing to catch his breath. He managed to reach for the inhaler in his pocket, putting it to his lips and taking a long, deep puff. His breath, the coughs, finally starting to slow.
“Are you okay?” I asked.
He nodded, his voice returning. “Fine,” he said. “It sounds a lot worse than it actually is.”
He was still resting on his knees, though.
“It’s all the dust in here,” he said. “It got right into my lungs. Brutal.”
“Maybe it’s not such a good idea to be around it?” I said.
“Definitely not,” he said.
But he was standing up again and smiling as he said it. Only then did I realize how fast my heart was beating.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “It sounds worse than it is.”
“You said that already. . . .”
“So I guess it must be true.”
He took my hand, giving it a firm squeeze, then a second one as if to say, I’m fine, really.
I squeezed back, I’m glad.
Then he motioned toward the ceiling and all around himself, proudly. “So?” he said. “I know it’s just the bones of the place still, but what do you think? What do you think of our so-far-unnamed endeavor?”
I looked at Griffin for another second and then looked around, trying to envision the restaurant—what it would be—beneath the construction. The bones were already hinting at how great it was going to look: wide-open beams and rafters, rustic tables of different sizes and a hearth oven, lanterns everywhere. And, of course, that large fireplace leading to the red top.
“I think it’s going to be amazing,” I said. “Really amazing.”
He gave me a big smile. “The Stones are seeping into the walls,” he said. “Giving the room some flavor.”
“Maybe you should call the restaurant the Stones, then?”
“I’m not so sure about that.”
“How about Annie’s Place then? Or just . . . Annie’s? Everyone likes a place called Annie’s. I think both have a certain ring to them.”
I smiled so he’d know I was mostly kidding. In response, he wrapped his arms around me.
“I’ll put those in the file for sure,” he said, bending down and kissing the side of my face, holding there. “And how has your day been going? I was getting a little worried. I called the house a few times and you didn’t pick up.”
�
�I ended up bringing the twins to school.”
I thought I felt it then, just the softest tension—his lips against my cheek starting to release. But then, almost as quickly, he was back with me, lips pressing against my skin.
“That was nice of you.”
“It wasn’t a big deal,” I said. “Jesse needed to get into Boston for a meeting with his dissertation adviser.”
“It was a big deal,” he said. “Aren’t you on deadline for your latest ‘Checking Out’?”
Another reminder that I was on deadline—Peter anxiously reminding me himself via phone and e-mail, at increasingly frequent intervals. A looming deadline not only to turn in the new column, but to make a decision as to where I wanted to travel next. The answer no closer to coming to me.
But I just smiled and shrugged. “It was kind of fun, actually,” I said. “I saw a little of the town. Got to hang with the twins, and see their school. Plus, I met Gia.”
This time I knew I wasn’t imagining his tension.
“You met Gia?” he said.
I nodded. “In the breezeway. We ended up talking for a little while and she seemed lovely to me. A little like she could give Martha Stewart a run for her money, but I actually thought maybe I made a first friend here. I know that sounds like I’m in high school, but it felt like I knew her or something. She just seemed . . . lovely to me.”
“You mentioned . . .”
“Is she not?”
“No,” he said. “She is. She’s lovely.”
I looked up, met his eyes. “Right, so I’m trying to figure out how I offended her. All I know is she walked away from me quickly after I told her we had gotten married. Why would she care about that? You dated in high school.”
Griffin closed his eyes, slightly shaking his head. “Shit,” he said.
“What? She can’t still be into you after all this time. That’s crazy. I mean, I’ll never get over you, but . . .”
Griffin opened his eyes, looking at me, not smiling at my joke. Or, for that matter, at me.
“Annie,” he said, “I never said that Gia was just my high school girlfriend. I never said that to you.”
