Stay With Me

by Garret Freymann-Weyr

  "No, I haven't decided yet," she says. "If there's time and I want to, I'll take the early train to Budapest. Meet him for lunch."

  "Raphael doesn't know," I say.

  "There's nothing to know," she says. "I don't even know."

  I think of saying that he won't mind, she needn't worry. But something in Clare's face—a combination of exhaustion and misery—reminds me of what she said during one of her weepy nights after the breakup.

  "It's Rebecca," I say. "You need to find out if you left Gyula because of Rebecca."

  "I just wish I knew if I love Raphael or miss her," Clare says.

  "Both, maybe?"

  "Yes, but..." she says, trailing off. "God, the thing I'll never forgive her for is how many of my thoughts start that way now."

  I suppose that's why I want there to be a reason. So I can forgive her.

  Wait, I think. Wait. How did we move from Clare to Rebecca. That's not good.

  "When you see Gyula," I say, "you'll know. And then you'll do the right thing."

  "I hope I'll know what the right thing is," Clare says.

  I move my books to the coffee table and get a sheet out of the cabinet I made for her birthday.

  "Is he your great love?" I ask, taking cushions from the couch. "Gyula, I mean."

  Clare is quiet for a little bit, watching me make up her bed.

  "I could tell you I don't believe in them," she says.

  "You could," I say.

  "Maybe it's all a question of timing and there's no >> one person.

  If that were true, Raphael would be winning the timing contest and she would not be sitting here planning to see Gyula.

  "I think Mama and Da had a great love," Clare says. "But what a mess."

  "Me too," I say, unreasonably thrilled to find another believer in my favorite Abranel story. "I've always thought that too. And the mess doesn't change it."

  The mess is the most important part, as it sent him off to fall in love with my mother. Which is, after all, how I am here.

  "You know, before Rebecca died, I'd never have left him," Clare says. "Not even if he'd bought me six hotels. I'd have just laughed and told him no."

  "So he is your great love," I say. "Or was."

  Or would have been. It makes sense that the man who reminds me of a chandelier is going to beat out the man who reminds me of my family. But being the great love doesn't mean being the love who lasts. Da and Janie have shown me that. Raphael would happily take being the one who lasts. Only Clare can decide.

  "Do you want me to come with you?" I ask. "To Vienna, I mean."

  "Oh, no, sweetie," she says. "I'll be fine."

  "I can ask for another extension," I say, not caring that I won't get it. "When you come back from Budapest, you shouldn't be alone."

  "Listen, when I take you to Europe," she says, "it will be on a trip just for us. We'll eat sweets and look at old buildings until our eyes fall out."

  I picture us in Sweden, visiting the university's library with our sister's name in it. In Vienna or Munich, checking up on Clare's work projects. Or in Barcelona, staying at the Vivfilli. We might go to Alexandria together and hunt for Da's lost city. I can even see us trying to find a city with no stories in it at all. If we're lucky we'll have time for each possible trip.

  Thirty One

  OCTOBER ARRIVES. From the moment I received Adrien Tilden's letter, I had imagined that this month would find me counting down the days until his return from London. Instead, two days go by before I think of my tentatively scheduled date to meet him. And then I only remember it because he sends me another note.

  . Dear Leila, My return home has been unexpectedly delayed. Scott and I will remain in London until December, possibly February. I hope we can meet then and talk about your sister. I have, of course, endlessly reviewed my last meeting with R. Obviously, I wish I'd known it would be the last, for it was just a quick cup of coffee to catch up on trivial news. I remember telling Scott that she looked beautiful and for that I am grateful. My best to you and your family. Cordially, Adrien.

  I touch where he has written R. I want more than anything to believe that his abbreviation of my sister's name is proof that he knew her in some special way. And that what he thinks is trivial might be something else entirely. I suppose that Scott might be Adrien's boyfriend (maybe even the man I saw him with at Acca), but who knows. If Adrien were gay, would that tell me more or less about Rebecca?

  December, I think. I'll know in December. Or February. What exactly I'll know seems as vague as my new deadline. I tuck the note away with the first one and then find that I hardly think of it.

  It must be that my thoughts are mostly taken up with worrying about Clare's upcoming trip to see Gyula. And with Eamon's inviting me to his father's beach house for the first weekend of the month.

  Raphael says I can go, but Clare says I have to call my parents to ask.

  "Mom already knows we're dating," I say.

  I loved how she paused slightly before saying, Yes, I thought that might happen. From across the ocean and over the phone, I could feel her belief in my ability to know what was right. We stayed on the phone for another half-hour discussing obvious details, but nothing was as important as her initial response.

  "I know she does," Clare says. "But a weekend trip is something I want them to sign off on."

  Da answers. Mom's out; she stayed late at the hospital. Instead of leaving a message for her to call, I decide to ask him.

  "Clare hasn't said no, has she?" he asks.

  "She says I need your permission."

  "Those days are rapidly ending," Da says. "I gather you like this boy."

  "He's thirty-one," I say. "And I do."

  "Go with Eamon, have a good time," Da says. "Someday you'll tell me all about it."

  I see that when she died, the gaping hole Rebecca made in Da's life was one that reached into his future. Whatever plans he'd once had included all of us telling him some version of how we were. Of what our lives were like.

  "Someday," I say. "I promise."

  It's a really nice weekend. Mr. Greyhalle tells me that even if I'm young enough to be doing homework, I have to call him Theodore. That he went to Stanford and can tell me that California is a great place to live.

  "Dad," Eamon says. "Don't."

  I spend most of my time in the small room Eamon has taken over for his computer and scripts. Its sparseness—table, chair, shelves, one lamp—and its view of the ocean make it soothing and disturbing all at once. The way I have seen work itself to be.

  Once back home, I finally tell Eamon what is being said about me at school. It's the night before my proposal is due, and I'm practicing the presentation. Apparently, I also find it easier to talk about myself if it's buried in and around work. Schoolwork, in this case, but that's what I have. I somewhat haltingly get out that people seem to think there's something deeply wrong with me. Wrong because of Da's age.

  "They're really scraping for dirt," Eamon says. "It's been that bad?"

  "Well, the girls all think I'm incredibly cool," I say.

  "Cool doesn't sound so awful," he says. "Boys the ones giving you a problem?"

  "Other than Ben, not the ones my age," I say. "But the theory about Da is floating around."

  "And you're hearing it," he says, putting his arms around me.

  "Yeah, you could say that."

  I lean against him so his body can do that trick where it absorbs all the bad stuff.

  "It's kind of playing out the opposite for me," he says. "The men all think I've done something brilliant and, except for Brett, the women think I should be shot."

  I laugh because of the image he presents. A bunch of men sitting around thinking, Hey, way to go, a blonde teenager, and a bunch of women thinking that Eamon is also thinking that.

  "Only my father is not being a jerk," Eamon says. "Who knew."

  "And Brett."

  "Brett always thinks the best of me," he says. "She knows I did not run
after you hoping you didn't know any better."

  She may have made me uneasy, but I'll probably have to wind up liking her. I'll just have to stay away from Elizabeth.

  "Is that what people are saying to you?" I ask. "That I don't know better?"

  "That's the nice version," he says. "Listen, bunny, look at me."

  I retreat to the end of the couch in his father's living room. We spend a fair amount of time at Mr. Greyhalle's apartment, which radically cuts down on how often we sleep together. I think I know now why we're here so much instead of at Eamon's. It's not just because he's worried about his dad. Eamon's as afraid as I am that what we're hearing might be true.

  Maybe I should tell him that calling me bunny isn't helping what people say, but I like it. I'd be sorry if I never heard him say it again. I can live with a little speculation.

  "There's no way people aren't going to have an opinion about us," he says. "It's annoying, I know."

  "It's creepy and weird."

  "That's actually a better description," he says and then adds, in a TV announcer voice, "Leila and Eamon, the creepy and the weird: tune in Tuesdays at eight."

  "But you don't write sitcoms," I say.

  "I think I get to be the monster in this one," he says. "Not the writer."

  "Let's make it animation," I say, because it killed him to lose the details in the Japanese animated version. He said even a genius couldn't make up for it.

  "If we were a show, we'd already have broken up," Eamon says. "It's bad for ratings if a couple stays together."

  "According to you, we're going to break up," I say, but I can't look at him, and fix my eyes on the rug. "Even Clare thinks it can't last, and she likes you."

  "Leila, what if we agree to let people think what they want," he says. "And to not care as long as we don't feel creepy and weird."

  "Why would we?" I ask, looking up, because in all my life I've never felt as right and as certain as when I'm with him.

  "Sometimes it's easier to believe other people instead of listening to what you hope for," he says.

  "Did you hope for this?" I ask, motioning to the space between us as if we were connected by the air.

  "Only secretly," he says. "I was afraid it would feel too strange."

  "But it doesn't," I say.

  "I know," he says. "I was wrong."

  Which means it's possible his belief about what will inevitably go all wrong is just that—a belief. Inexcusable adoration, which has made me feel absurdly happy as well as protected, might well go in any number of directions.

  Eamon could be nothing but the beginning of all the misery and heartbreak ahead as I look for a love to fit with my life in the theater. Or, I could find myself at a dinner party someday, warning another girl that he can still make me do anything. There may even be an end we have neither heard of nor thought to imagine.

  Mr. Nordman asks several questions during my presentation, mostly having to do with the designs instead of the plays. It's a good thing I made some sketches instead of only relying on dimensions and scale. When I'm done he says it's the best independent study proposal he's ever approved.

  "Good for you, Leila," he says. "I was so pleased when your grades picked up last year."

  "Why?" I ask.

  Everyone cares so much about my grades. Surely I'm more than the arrangement of letters I get in exchange for studying.

  "Because you're very bright," he says, words I never hoped to hear from a non—family member. "I've always thought it."

  That's not true. He's not always thought any such thing.

  "How could you possibly ever think that?" I ask him. "I take all my tests untimed, reading a math problem takes almost as long as answering it. I'm not bright, I'm a struggle."

  I sound angry, which isn't right since he's giving me a compliment.

  "But you haven't given up," Mr. Nordman says. "In my book, that's bright."

  "Yes, well, um," I say, my mind going blindingly blank. "So I need to, um, hand in my first draft by, uh ... when?"

  Could I sound more like William when he's nervous? What's wrong with me?

  "Let's say end of January, with check-ins on your progress twice a month," Mr. Nordman says. "That way you can focus on exams and college applications."

  "Right, okay," I say. "Thanks."

  I gather up my designs, note cards, and books and bolt out of his office as if it's on fire. Something's wrong, out of place, not in order. Through my last two periods I scan my mind over and over. What is it? The proposal? No, it's not school.

  Eamon asked me to call him and tell him how it went. If I felt like celebrating, I could meet him at Acca. If I didn't feel like it, I could meet him there anyway. I could use my new cell or the pay phone on the corner, but I walk right by it and go home.

  It's only once there, when I head straight into my closet, that I know what's wrong. I slip the ring Da gave me on New Year's Day off its ribbon and put it on my right middle finger. If I want to, I can drop knitting from the antidyslexic schedule. I now have a guarantee that I'll keep left straight from right.

  This ring was my sister's, and if once I wished she'd given it to me, I'll wear it forever precisely because she didn't. I don't need a sign or a clue or even a meeting with Adrien Tilden to find out the reason for what happened.

  Rebecca gave up.

  Which is unbelievably sad and totally inexcusable.

  For a minute I think I'm going to have the kind of crying fit that demands running water and a closed door. But instead I sit quietly, waiting as things shift and crack. It is exactly as Clare described them doing for her on that trip to Sweden when she was first able to notice cups, flowers, soap. When she could see what was there.

  Adrien Tilden turned out to be a real person, but I made him more important than what he actually is—someone left behind. I hunted for Rebecca's hidden story and wished for a secret reason because I couldn't bear to think about what she had done.

  Eventually, I go into the bathroom and hold my hand up to the mirror. I'll be glad to meet Adrien, the way I'll always be glad to touch or remember even the smallest part of her life. From a box under my bed, I pull out the picture of Da, Janie, and Clare. The one Rebecca took of them on her birthday. I snuck it out of my father's study and packed it with my things when I left to come here.

  It's probably the best photograph I have of her, reflecting as it does the way I knew her best, through stories involving other people.

  When Janie died, people told Da and the girls to, somehow, get through a year. Eventually, time would heal all wounds. That's all Gyula meant when he told Clare to wait before she left him, but I don't think a year is going to heal her. Or Da. Or even me.

  There's no end to the kind of angry that Rebecca's giving up demands. Instead it leaks out here and there, both hideous and pretty. Things turn out differently than they might have.

  There's no story in it. No narrative waiting to be put into its proper sequence. So I'll stop looking before the year is up. After all, when I tell myself the story of Rebecca's suicide, I start with meeting Janie, which took place years before. At some point, this story might become one about how I met Eamon. Or Charlotte. Depending on who is more important by the time I get to that apartment I've imagined.

  Clare's Rebecca story will always be part of how she chose either her great love or her cousin. Da's will involve, rather cleverly, helping to create a hospital.

  Rebecca erased a part of each of us. It's how we fill it back in that will be what survives. What is told.

  Acknowledgments

  It is customary, as my father would say, to thank people and to cite the books on which the writer has relied.

  Therefore, I shall start with Thomas Weyr. It is from him that I have learned exactly what it means to be the daughter of a man who has lost his city. His book, The Setting of the Pearl: Vienna Under Hitler; will give some idea of what I owe him. He gave me invaluable editing suggestions at different times.

  For C
lare's and Leila's vague ideas and dreams about Alexandria, False Papers by André Aciman and A Blood-Dimmed Tide by Amos Elon were very helpful in quite different ways.

  For Clare's career—and love—of hotels, I am indebted to my mother. From the time I was very small, she took me with her on both personal and business trips throughout Europe. The hotels were almost always for budget-minded businesspeople or local tourists. As such, they were full of stories and she allowed me to roam through them freely. She also gave me New Hotels for Global Nomads by Donald Albrecht to help in my research.

  The following people gave generously of their time and attention as readers: Elizabeth Thompson, Katie Smythe-Newman, Rosina Williams, Mathew Olshan, Aliyah Baruchin, and my sainted agent, Robin Rue. My editor, Margaret Raymo, had questions and comments which were most illuminating. My husband, Jeffrey Freymann-Weyr, read each and every draft with unfailing patience. His clarity and wisdom are of incalculable help.

  "Freymann-Weyr... has invented a whole new language to describe the pangs of coming of age."*

  WHEN I WAS OLDER

  "In this touching coming-of-age novel, the theme of losing a loved one is strong, but does not overwhelm the story of Sophie's growth as a young woman."—SLJ

  MY HEARTBEAT

  A Michael Printz Honor Book

  * "Freymann-Weyr writes with an astonishing combination of delicacy and clarity of the genuine complexity of family (and all) relationships."— The Bulletin, starred review

  THE KINGS ARE ALREADY HERE

  * "As in her My Heartbeat, Freymann-Weyr creates charming, intellectual characters.... Readers will be rewarded with fully articulated characters and fascinating views of their rarified worlds."—Publishers Weekly, starred review

  *Horn Book, March-April 2003