by Amy McNamara
She says the last part quietly, like she’d rather not say it at all.
Of course. And I would be the reason he’s even hesitating about having his famous party. I have to swallow back the crappy scone I ate with my mocha. He’s been distracted.
She won’t stop looking at me. Reading me. And I can’t control my face. I’m too busy bearing up against the shame pounding at my center.
“It’s my fault, really,” she says, sounding a little nervous or something. “When I first got here, he was so distracted—I offered to help however I could.”
And so she ended up keeping an eye on me, doing dishes and probably not getting anything useful from my dad. I pull my collar up high around my face. There’s nothing I can say to her that will change anything. Mary was helping out in the hopes of actually getting some of what she came for. She drew the short straw. Had her fellowship when the artist’s crazy daughter was in town. I tighten my scarf. Wish, wish I were back at the house. Or running. Anywhere but here, feeling like this. And that’s just it. This is how it is. Always. To pay attention to things. People. It’s too easy to fail other people. And the good-byes. You never have the time you think. It brings tears to my eyes. I blink them away. I blew it with Mary; now she’s out of here.
“So, my replacement is a guy. Nick Bishop,” she says in a bright voice. “You’ll like him. He’s nice. Outgoing. Ambitious.”
“Great.” I couldn’t care less about the new guy.
The snow slows. Melts when it hits the windshield. I watch it spin down lazy through the triangle of the floodlight between us and the shipyard trailer.
“I met him a few times. He’s funny. My friend Sarah knows his roommate. Says he’s got a good heart. Your dad liked him in the interviews.”
I’m going to have to meet another person. I didn’t even know my dad had done interviews. When did my dad do interviews? I would kill to be in bed right now. Last night’s bad sleep is draped like a lead apron over everything. I’ve been so self-absorbed, it’s embarrassing. I look at the shipyard office. No sign of anyone coming out to us anytime soon. I sigh. Make an effort. I tell myself that. Make a damn effort.
“Who are the other people, then? That work with you guys?” I ask. “The other assistants?”
She looks at me like she can’t believe my question, then laughs. “You mean Zara, Anna, Jeb, and Mark? Anna’s an independent artist who sometimes collaborates with your dad, not exactly an assistant, and Jeb and Mark—they’re all artists in their own right, but your dad hires those guys to help out. You’d like them. They’re cool. That’s why I wanted you to come to Secret Cinema, most of them come. And Zara, well, you know—she and Jeb run Mercy House together. I think it’s been the same crew for a few years now. God, Wren, does your dad tell you anything?”
She’s nice to put it like that. We both know he probably has.
“I haven’t been paying that much attention.” I shrug, like it’s normal. “I mean, before now, I hardly ever came up here.”
I stare at the place on the dashboard where the airbag pops out. Airbag. What a name. Like it’s a balloon. Felt more like a brick wall. The airbags in Patrick’s car—they didn’t do him any good. I shiver involuntarily. It’s cold in here. Heat seeps away so quickly when the engine’s off.
“Well, Swap Night is legendary,” she says, still smiling, like a strident grin will pull me out of the pit I’m in. “There are wild stories about the old days. But even now, everyone wants to come. He invites locals, friends from the city, people from galleries, art writers—we all hope. The new fellow comes up, with trustees from RISD. Your dad goes all out. Champagne, the works.”
I wrap my arms around myself. Shrink into my coat. I wish I could disappear into it. Dad’s errand is taking forever.
“I’m going to go ask them what the deal is,” Mary says, with a frustrated look back at the little office. “Did you see what I found at the bookstore? Check this out.”
She reaches in a bag behind my seat and pulls out a thick book. A monograph. My dad’s work. It’s heavy on my lap, which is good because I’m starting to feel a little like I might fly away. Like everyone else has solid lives, and I’m just a particle, passing through.
“Wren? Are you okay?” Mary asks, before she shuts the door.
I shake my head. Find words and force them out. “No, I’m fine. Just sad you’re leaving. And I’m sorry I wrecked your fellowship.”
“You didn’t!”
A lie. She gives one more quick look at the shed, shakes her head, and pops back into the car. Turns over the engine.
“Wren, I didn’t mean—”
“Distracted? God, Mary, have you gotten anything out of your time with him? You’ve been waiting on me since I got here.” There’s a painful strain in my neck when I swallow. “And I don’t want to meet the new guy. I want you to stay.”
It comes as a surprise. To both of us, I think. I want something. I want Mary to stay. And something else. I want Cal.
She covers my mittened hand with hers. Cranes her head into my space. “I’ve been happy here. Your dad—you know—that’s life. I got to work with him, watch him work through a personal difficulty. It’s not only sculpture I came for. That’s the point of these fellowships. You live the daily life of your mentor, however they define it.”
She taps the horn lightly a few times. No response from the office.
“They’re so slow! Sorry,” she says, leaning back in her seat.
I keep my eyes on the dash. Sweet, cheery Mary. I ruined her time up here. And now she’s trying to make me feel better about it. The hot prickle of shame climbs the back of my neck. I keep my eyes on the snow falling through the light.
“I was serious when I said you could drive down and visit. We’re in a big old house, my roommates and I, lots of room. It’s a good group of people. My friend Charlie’s a photographer—he can give you a rundown on the department. Come see me. I’ll show you what life’s like at RISD.”
“Yeah.” I nod, slowly.
But that’ll never happen. I’m floating away. It’s too hard to feel. I’m drained. Want to go home.
On cue, the guy comes out of the trailer office carrying a small piece of welded steel. Mary thanks him, chats a minute, effortlessly, then signs for the piece.
The drive home is quiet through the snow.
open
your
eyes
THE DARKEST NIGHT OF THE YEAR.
Darker for some than others. Patrick’s family’s approaching their first Christmas without him. I should call. I look at my phone, try to imagine actually doing that. At least once. And all those unread messages in my inbox from Emma—guilt, guilt, guilt. I’m weak. I roll over. Sleep a little more.
Finally, I drag myself out of bed like a ninety-year-old. Get in to work. Cal hasn’t called in days. Not since Mary and I went shopping. My phone’s as silent as a stone. He probably changed his mind. Had a chance to think it over and figured out what a mess I am. Came to his senses. Good for him. Maybe Mary weighed in after our chat in the car. Told him to save himself. I can’t stop thinking about her, how much I failed to see. I don’t trust anything I think I know now. I guess that’s the price of sailing so far away. I probably misread what happened between Cal and me at his house, too.
I check my phone anyway. Watch the door at the library. Like it’s ever going to be anyone other than Lucy. I can’t call him. Mamie might have, she wasn’t afraid of putting people into awkward positions.
No. I don’t need to call. If I didn’t misread it, it’s obvious he’s realized I’m a disaster. Not worth the trouble. I swallow that thought down like a brick. But it’s for the best. This was exactly what I didn’t want, anyway. All this feeling.
Lucy has me stacking books for her shut-ins, extra deliveries she wants to get out before we close for the winter holiday. Things are changing. Life is like that. While I sort books into patrons’ piles, I run down how it’s going to go. A silent script, stage
directions: Mary exits, I work, Cal—I don’t have one for Cal, but I find a way to close up again, get back to feeling like I’m not going to break apart at any second. Like I don’t have my ruined, ruining heart exposed all the time.
On the drive home, I hear Patrick’s voice in my head, the actual sound of it, so clear I almost swerve. Laughing at me. Then shouting when he realized I was serious, telling him I was done. I thought he’d understand. See it from my point of view. I’d been that girl for too long, Mamie and Patrick—my quirk to his cool.
I can hardly see when I pull Cal’s Jeep in alongside my house. I sit with my face pressed into the damp wool of my mittens until I can breathe normally. I shouldn’t be driving his car. Keeping it here. I should find a way to get it back to his place. Clear boundaries. Drop it off and jog home. Not now, though, not when I might risk seeing him. Maybe really early tomorrow morning.
I go in to the empty house, change, and head back out for a run. A long one. Up high over town, to the overlook. Nowhere near his house. Up near the top, the view pierces me so totally I have one of those flash thoughts about tossing myself into the ocean. Surrender to the enormous wildness, the water’s churning gray force, the solid rocks. It doesn’t seem so scary. The idea. It seems like it could bring a lot of quiet. Endless quiet.
When my phone rings it’s so unexpected and out of sync with where I am that for a second I’m not even sure what it is.
“Darling.”
“Hi Mom.”
“I just had the strongest desire to hear your voice.”
“I’m running.”
She sighs, but lightly, like she doesn’t mean to let it slip out.
“So you are, I hope it’s a good run?”
“It’s a good run, but I have to get back to it, Mom. I’m getting cold standing still.”
“Of course, darling, don’t catch cold. Call me later?”
I promise to call and head for home.
When I get back, Dad’s in the studio, home from Berlin, and Mary’s at Mercy House. I’m alone with the dimming daylight. No music. Everything I have makes me think of Cal. I will myself not to be heartsick. It doesn’t work.
Industry. I am my mother’s daughter. I drag myself from the couch over to the sink to tackle some seriously neglected dishes. This morning’s oatmeal is barnacled to the side of the bowl and, until the water heats up, seems like it’s going to win the fight. Conquered by breakfast foods. A new kind of pathetic.
My phone rings. I almost ignore it. It’s going to be my mother again. Only it’s not. It’s Cal. Cal’s number. The fading light out my windows looks more beautiful than it’s ever looked.
“Can you come over now?” he asks before I say hello.
I dry the bowl I’ve managed to scrape clean, wipe my hands, toss the dishtowel on the counter, and go fall into the armchair. Relief rivers through me.
“Yes,” I say, trying to hide how happy I am to hear his voice. Fail.
“Everything okay?” I ask.
“Fine. See you soon.”
He hangs up before I can say anything else.
Very mysterious. And it’s like it’s the first time a boy ever called. I spend a minute or two frozen with my phone in my hand, trying to figure out how his voice sounded. Not cold, I guess. Then I rush around my room trying to find the right thing to wear. Try on the chiffon blouse Mary made me buy. I can’t do it. I don’t know what I’m heading into. Better to be comfortable. I check out my hair. Brush it a few times, then finger comb it. I still remember how to do a few things. I leave it loose, soft around my face. Put on a little lip gloss. I don’t want to try too hard, I’ll feel ridiculous if he says this is the last time I’ll see him. Because, let’s be honest, he’s probably given it a little thought, is going to tell me he isn’t into miserable.
When I pull up to the house, there are tons of tire tracks coming and going along the driveway. Company. Maybe still here. I cut the engine and sit a second, try to take a few deep breaths. Then I push the button and the garage door swings open. Only the silver car. No one else’s. I let out the breath I was holding.
Someone clears his throat. Cal, leaning on the doorjamb, smiling at me. I spent the whole drive there thinking I can’t do this, but there he is, looking at me that way he does. I climb out of the Jeep, throw my arms around his neck, kiss him.
He steps back, laughing. “You could knock a guy over, you know.”
He opens the collar of my coat and kisses my neck. I feel it somewhere down behind my knees. I step out of my boots and he slips my jacket off my shoulders. There are no lights on in the house.
“What are you doing in the dark?” I try to make my eyes adjust. I’m shaky, jittery in a nervous, happy way. Relieved. I’m relieved to see him. Relieved he’s glad to see me.
“Well, Rabbit,” he says leaning on a crutch and ruffling my hair like I’m a puppy, “my dad and stepmom dropped in for a surprise visit. When I told them I was staying here for the holidays, they got worried. That’s not what they said, of course, they were supposedly just passing through on their way to New York and wanted to say hello.” He laughs. “Like this place isn’t totally out of the way. My dad was just here, but I think Annie, my stepmom, wanted to see me with her own eyes.”
“Sounds like my mother,” I say, suddenly hoping she doesn’t get the same idea.
“So they showed up a few days ago for a thorough parental check-up-on-the-sick-kid holiday extravaganza.” He slides a hand around my waist, against the small of my back. “I showed them how fine I am.”
“Yes, you are,” I say, grinning at him. I’m ridiculous with happiness. It’s a strange sensation.
He laughs. “I told them I wanted to stick around here this year. With you?” He looks at me like he’s not sure if that’s an okay thing to say. I press my forehead into his chest. Close my eyes. This can’t be real.
“So they left. But Annie left something for us.”
He slips his arm into the other crutch and I follow him through the dark house to the span of windows that overlook the water. “Stay there,” he says, “and close your eyes.”
I close them. This is more than I hoped for. He’s glad to see me. Seems like he’s feeling a little better. I squeeze my eyes a little tighter and take in a huge, happy breath. The first one in a long time.
He puts on some music, and then he’s behind me, hands on my waist. I lean back a little against his chest. He kisses the top of my head.
“Okay. Open your eyes.”
Hundreds of tiny lights before us. Strands of golden sparkles crisscross the terrace between the house and the water. It’s like the sky loaned down some stars and they’re dusting the bare limbs of trees, twinkling from small snowy tufts of bushes, lining the terrace all the way to the edge. It’s another world. A dream of light.
“Oh . . .” It’s all I can say. I wish I had my camera.
He tips my chin up, leans down, meets my mouth with his.
“My stepmom wanted to give us something beautiful.”
Us.
It’s been so long. But I want something, this. I want to be an us. With him.
He frees his arms from the crutches. Drops them onto the couch. Lowers himself to the soft rug on the floor. Pulls me down with him. It’s a little awkward.
“Sorry,” he says, voice tight a second. “Down’s not as easy as it looks.”
We lean back against the couch, face the lights. The lengths of our legs run hot side by side. Touching in a million places. He moves closer, pulls me to him, runs his hands through my hair, along my neck, then into my shirt. He presses his mouth against my throat, along my collarbone. I shiver.
“Is this okay?” he whispers below my ear.
It might be the first thing that’s been okay for me in a long time. We slip down so we’re lying before the windows, Cal on his elbow, over me, tracing my face with the backs of his fingers. I know this path, where it goes. I want to press myself into him, against him, be here, not there, disappe
ar into this heat between us.
“Are you crying?” He wipes a tear off my cheek.
I am. Not now, Patrick, not now, not now.
“I’m happy,” my voice breaks.
More tears. I cover my face. Impossible not to think about it, where this leads.
He pulls my hands away. Kisses the tears off my cheeks. Holds me close, his heart steady, sure, under my ear.
“It’s just,” I say, when I find my voice again, “everything’s kind of intense for me right now. I’m not really sure what I’m doing. And I thought maybe you were done with me. You know, when I didn’t hear from you.” I wipe my face with my hand.
“Done with you—” Cal’s arms tighten around me. “I wanted to give you some space. I told you all that heavy stuff—I wanted you to have a chance to back away.”
He kisses my eyelids. My wet eyelashes.
Heavy stuff. He has no idea.
I take a deep breath.
“You make me feel like I might not be an entirely ruined person.”
He starts to object when I call myself ruined, but I put my hand over his mouth. I think I need to say it. I need someone other than my parents to know.
“The night—that night—we were out at Meredith’s beach house. A bunch of us. Patrick—my boyfriend—I broke up with him.”
But there was something else.
Another deep breath.
“We kept it small on purpose, only the people we wanted out for the weekend, you know—” I laugh bitterly, remember how stupid and calculating I was. “I brought my camera with me, my swimsuit, some music.” I pinch my eyes shut tight. I can see myself then, that stupid girl, I think I was planning to make pictures out of the weekend, everyone’s last hurrah or something. Like it could all go exactly how I wanted it to. I would break up with Patrick, and we’d still all be close, like we were, have fun, one last time. Like life actually did what you willed it to. “I was done with my projects for the end of the year—”
