by Amy McNamara
Of course. I lie back on the floor. Wish I could laugh. Ask which bits he thinks I’ve seen.
“So, he’s fitting in well?”
Mary’s voice goes up at the end of every one of her sentences like she can hardly believe what she’s saying.
I say nothing.
“Are you there? Wren?”
I’m so frustrated I could scream. Despite my efforts to shut them all off, apparently I still have feelings.
“I’m not seeing Nick,” I say, tightly.
“I didn’t think so!” She lets out a long breath. Sounds so relieved.
Even though I know the answer I say, “Is that what Cal told Michael?”
She lets out a nervous little laugh.
“Come on,” I say. “Did you really think I was seeing Nick? I don’t have that much energy. The sun doesn’t have that much energy.”
She laughs again.
“Is that what Cal said to Michael?” I have to know.
“I don’t know. Michael just told me he talked to Cal, and he sounded bummed.”
I fling my arm over my eyes. I’m so tired.
“Michael pushed him on it, and Cal said something about you and Nick hanging out? You guys running together?”
I want to hang up. Sleep. I can’t keep my eyes open.
“I told him I was sure it was nothing,” she goes on. She wants to make it all okay. “But Michael’s worried about Cal. Not that it’s your job to—”
I cut her off. “This is exactly why I didn’t want to get involved with anyone.”
I thud the back of my head against the floor. Thud, thud, thud. Feels good. Calming, somehow.
“What did happen? Between you and Nick?” she asks.
“Nothing!” I’m exasperated. “The guy’s an ass. I’m sorry; I mean, I know you think he’s nice and know him or his friends, but he’s annoying, to me.”
“So you’re not into him.”
“No! The heat was out in the studio, and he showed up at our house to wait while my dad ran out for a part. I was going for a run and he followed me. Uninvited.”
Thud, thud, thud.
“I knew it was something stupid like that,” she says happily, sounding relieved. Everything’s right in her world.
“Some woman from town saw us and mentioned it in front of Cal. He freaked out. I haven’t heard from him since. End of story.”
“I told Michael he had it wrong—things were so good with you and Cal. You were coming back to life around him.” She sucks in her breath. “I didn’t mean it that way, just that you seemed happier when you were with him.”
She’s right. I was. And I wrecked it.
“Well, it doesn’t matter because it’s over now. Cal practically pushed me out of the car when he brought me home that night. Couldn’t get out of here fast enough.”
“He was probably just confused. I’m sure it’s not that bad,” she says.
“No, I blew it.” I press the bottom of my foot against the huge window. It’s icy cold. Hurts, almost. I like it. “I don’t know why I didn’t just tell him. I wasn’t thinking. I thought it would make him feel bad.”
“Just call him,” she says. “Straighten it out.” Like it’s so easy.
“No.” Thud, thud. “I can’t. He’s probably relieved to be done with me anyway. I can’t deal with it. Hear him say it.”
“God, you’re so dense. Don’t you see how he looks at you?” She gives a little sigh.
The spot on the back of my head is starting to hurt. I roll onto my side. Press my cheek against the cool floor.
“So . . . you and Michael?” I’m a master of distraction.
“He stayed two days when we drove back. I’m going down to see him at Johns Hopkins next weekend!”
Her voice is like a song. At least someone’s happy. I press the balls of my feet against the window again. It feels good to push against something solid.
“Your younger man,” I tease.
“Oh, he’s plenty mature enough for me,” she says.
No doubt. He’s mature enough to think he knows what’s best for his older brother, that’s for sure. Hell of a watchdog, that Michael. I sigh. He had me pegged.
“He thinks I’m bad for Cal,” I say.
“No . . .” but she’s uncomfortable. We both know I’m right. “He’s just worried about him. I guess it was bad last year when Susanna left. He thinks Cal’s not used to . . . everything yet.”
“Two ruined people.”
“You’re not ruined,” she says, bright again. “You just think you are.”
“I wish you were still up here. I’d let you do my hair.”
She laughs. “I wish I were too. School’s good, and it’s great to be back, but you live in an amazing otherworld up there. Sometimes I feel like I dreamed it.”
“It’s dreaming me.”
I’m not sure what I mean by that. But it feels right. Like something is shifting. Waiting for me. Pulling me back.
“Call him, Wren,” she says.
I sink into the feeling. Mary’s voice sounds like it’s coming over the wires from far away, an old-fashioned long-distance telephone call. Scratchy. Faint. Static on the line.
“Call him,” she says again. “Okay?”
She’s little, tinny, breaking up. Or it’s me.
“You want to, right?” She won’t let me go without a promise.
I don’t want anything.
I can’t say that, but it’s true. I really don’t. Don’t want to feel anything. Hurt. Or hurt anyone else. I don’t want to see Cal’s face looking at me, disappointed.
“Wren?”
“I’m here.” I try to pull my eyes back into focus. “I’ll call. In the morning. Okay?”
I’m a ghost. It’s a ghost’s promise.
whose
woods
WE HANG UP. Mary’s happy, thinks she’s restored order in the magical world she imagines I live in. Pushed me toward the break in the trees.
My phone rings again. Dad.
He saw the truck. Glad I’m back. Am I okay? Yes. He’s done in the studio but wants to go home with Zara. Is that okay by me? Quiet pause. Sure. Whatever. I don’t really care. I don’t say that part. Yes, I tell him. Go. Do I need anything before he heads out? No. Do I want to talk about it? No. A package came today, it’s on the table.
I roll my head up from the floor, peer over there. A big white envelope. What has my mother done now? Probably enrolled me somewhere for second semester.
I want to hang up. I’m so tired.
Instead I say I’m fine Dad, it went well. Everything’s great. Go, go. I promise I’ll go to bed early. Soon. Now, even. I’ll get a good night’s sleep. See you in the morning.
Everyone knows what I should do.
Wish I did.
I grab the envelope off the table. It’s been forwarded here from my dad’s gallery in the city. No return address. Not my mother. I slip a finger under the flap. Pull out a stack of papers. Only it’s not papers. It’s photos. Big ones. A grainy black-and-white of Patrick and me on the beach at Meredith’s. Near the bonfire. His face open in a wide smile. Patrick with Emma on his shoulders on the Staten Island Ferry. I took that one. Emma and me on the stoop of my house. I drop them on the table. Sink into a chair.
A little note in Emma’s puffy handwriting sticks to the top of the last one.
I wish we’d never met.
She doesn’t sign it.
This is what she’s been trying to e-mail me.
I push away from the table. From the photos. Put my head in my hands.
I stand. Go to bed. My limbs are strangely weighted; I feel like I could black out, almost. But the minute I close my eyes, it starts. A buzzing inside me. Emma’s right to hate me. I have been a stupid, thoughtless person. I can’t stop seeing her note. Repeating it. The photographs. Then Patrick’s face, empty, next to me in the car.
I sit up. Flip the light back on. Try to read. It’s a waste of electricity. The words on
the page aren’t nearly forceful enough to be heard over what’s screaming inside my head. I click the light off and look at the stars. Wish I were closer to them. I get up and shove my bed up against the window. For a better view.
Finally, I take a pill. Then I wait. Fidget. Hot. Cold. Hot. Cold. For the first time ever, it doesn’t work. I get out of bed. It’s hard. Or too soft. I’m all over the place. My stomach growls, I can’t remember the last time I ate. I go get an apple. A piece of bread and jam. Very Little Red Riding Hood. I’m a character in a grim forest. All I’m missing is the red cloak and a basket with a checkered cloth. And the wolf.
I pace the house.
Something is rising in me. Like excitement, kind of, only scary. I’m scared. Whatever this is might take me over. I’ll never find my way back again. It’s loud in my head. A chorus of disappointment. Emma. Patrick. My mother. Dad. Meredith. Mary. Michael. Cal.
Cal.
His eyes the other night. The line of his mouth when he dropped me off. I can’t get it right with anyone.
I try to sleep again. After an endless hour, I can’t stand it anymore. Being awake. I roll out of bed, go into the bathroom. Shake another pill into my hand. Then a few more. Then the whole bottle. I look at my reflection in the mirror. I look wavy, wild. What am I doing?
I pick one out, swallow it dry, and push the rest back into the bottle. Return to my room. Lie down. I can’t stay still. Sit up again. I wish my dad were home—someone else in the house. I have so much energy. Like I could light the room if I could find a way to let it out. I look at the clock. It’s past midnight, what my mom calls the witching hour.
My running clothes are in a pile in the corner. I pull them on before I can change my mind. My heart’s going a million miles a minute. It hurts. I have to get out of the house. It’s like I could lift right out of my body. The pill isn’t even touching me. I can hardly tie my shoes.
I sprint out the door, barely taking time to pull it shut. There’s a light on in the studio. Nick. Working late. Or maybe Dad asked him to stay, check up on me. The idea makes me want to scream. I don’t. I don’t want to make him come out. Have to explain myself.
The woods are dark and deep. It’s a line from something. Famous. A poem. We had to memorize it in school—something, something dark and deep? Obviously too long ago for my memory. I can feel the rhythm of it but not the words. Which is how I’ve been living lately. Impressions. Gestures without meaning.
The woods are dark and deep, and I run through them until I can’t feel anything anymore. Boughs dump wet snow on me when I crash through. The scarlet branches of bare dogwoods whip my arms and face. I lose sight of the trails. I’m a fucking pioneer. I’m going to kick nature’s ass. I tear through deeper and deeper parts of the woods. Like if I’m fast enough, the forest might open up and let me in for real. I run until I’m burning. My lungs screaming in my chest, my muscles on fire. My heart’s a machine.
Finally, finally, I come back down into myself again. Calmer. I laugh. It worked. Screw Mom’s shrink and his measured words. I can still get out. I can outrun the terrible tide of feeling that comes over me and pulls me under. It’s all I needed to know. To calm down. I can still get out and away.
Something big flies overhead. My eyes start to focus, take in where I am. Branches snap as something else cruises through. I’m lost. It’s really dark and everything looks the same. I try to be quiet, listen for the ocean. Then I could find the highway, follow it home, but the only sound is my blood roaring in my ears and my ragged, thundering heart.
I close my eyes. Wait for my breath to slow. Now I’m tired. Cold. Maybe it’s the sleeping pills. I keep my eyes closed and try to walk, will myself homeward like some kind of animal. I fall. Tear my pants on something hard on the ground. Open my eyes again. A rock. My leg’s so cold I hardly feel it.
I think I hear a truck. Ahead of me. Maybe the highway. Across it, water. Home. It’s very quiet. The trees whispering hush.
I go toward where I thought I heard the truck. Close my eyes from time to time to listen. Hear another. I’m right. I come out of the woods at the edge of the highway a mile or two south of our driveway. Freezing. Shaking pretty badly. I’ll have to run again if I’m going to make it back. My body protests. My muscles are wasted. I do it anyway.
Take that, Dr. Lang. Here I am, saving myself. So I guess I do have a plan, after all. Stick around, hope things get better. But this is the coldest I’ve ever been. I’m starting to trip over my feet. My legs are wooden, one hand burning, the other numb. Is this what it’s like for Cal? I can’t imagine it. I’m staggering, but still running, getting closer. I focus on that. Getting closer. Run to the rhythm of it. Getting clo-ser. Everything’s familiar now. The moon is high and bright, and I pretend it’s midafternoon. I’m running with the heat of the sun on my shoulders. The sun is always a surprise when I come out of the woods no matter how many times I do it. Bright, clear warmth after the muffled dark.
The road brightens ahead of me even more. It takes me a minute to realize it’s headlights. A car pulling up behind me. Then a voice. Cal’s.
“Wren?”
Disbelief. Both of ours.
I turn and look at the car. He’s standing on the passenger side. Maybe I’m hallucinating. Who’s driving? I try to ask, but I can’t talk. I’m shaking too badly.
He leans back into the car, grabs a crutch, and rushes to me.
I can’t form words. My tongue’s frozen in my mouth.
“Wren?” He pulls off his jacket. Wraps it around me. “What are you doing out here? Do you know what time it is?”
Time. Somewhere deep inside me, this is funny.
“You’re freezing. Have you lost your mind?”
Even funnier.
“Say something.” He shakes me by the shoulders. Rubs my arms. I feel that. I’m pretty sure, now, that he’s real.
Then the driver door opens and a dark-haired woman steps out. Très chic.
“Cal?” she says. “What’s going on?”
Cal pulls me toward the car. “It’s Wren, Susanna,” he says.
Susanna.
“She’s freezing. We have to get her warm.”
Now everything’s clear. Mary and Michael know nothing. Cal’s not pining away for me at all. He’s moved on. I wrench my arms away. Knock him off balance. He catches himself against the car. Reaches for me again.
A burst of adrenaline shoots through me, electric. I drop his coat, look at him for a second, and take off into the woods on our side of the highway.
It’s a relief. I’m the one to walk away. No more loss for me. Not this time. I’ll get myself home. Without his help. I’m almost there anyway. This is what people do. They look out for themselves. Don’t cling to ridiculous ideas about love and being saved by it. I’m such a fool. How many times do I have to reach for the happy ending before I realize it’s not there?
And then I’m not cold anymore. The opposite. I’m lit from within. More right and true than I’ve ever felt before. On fire. I pull off my jacket and drop it on a scrubby bush.
It’s like an amazing dream. The moon’s a spotlight over the water. Beckons. I have to see it. Get to the ocean. Listen to waves hit the rocks. Be close to something real.
I turn away from the direction of our driveway and head toward the shore. I can hear Cal calling my name, her, too, and then their voices get smaller, farther away. I keep running.
The tiered rocks are an amphitheatre in the tangible world. They’re all I need. I climb down a little, slip once. An old, wrecked fishing dory is pulled up on a flat spot. Looks like it’s been there forever. A place for me to rest a little. I’m so tired.
Then more voices.
My dad’s. A woman’s. My dad’s again. Crashing through branches behind me.
I get out of the boat. Not sure where I’m going. Away. I slip on the icy rock. My foot’s in water. Someone grabs me, hard. I have a second of the most complete clarity. Like I’m waking up from something. Then
I pass out.
beacon
I OPEN MY EYES.
Nick.
Close them again.
Open them another time.
My father, his face a strange mask.
Cal.
Zara.
Nick again.
Some guy I don’t know. Another one. Their mouths all moving. Soundless.
Cal’s face. Terrified about something.
Close them again.
For a long time.
the
only
air
THEN: “Well, if this is what seeing a psychiatrist does for her, I’m sure as hell not asking her to go again.”
My dad.
And: “I am not close-minded, and no, I don’t know what they talked about. She didn’t say.”
I can’t hear the other person. He’s on the phone.
“Well, Lila,” he says, “I don’t push her like that. She’ll tell me what she wants to, when she’s ready.”
Long pause.
“I did not abandon her. We divorced. Don’t blame me for this,” his voice rises, then changes to an angry whisper. “It was a mistake, I admit, staying out last night, but this thing didn’t start up here. On my watch.”
Sun on my face. I don’t want to open my eyes. Then a warm hand on my arm. Squeezing. A blood-pressure cuff. Shit. Now I know where I am. I’m never going to get out of this one. Not again. Not like before.
I try to sink back into sleep, whatever’s out there can wait, but it won’t have me. I’m awake. Have to open my eyes at some point. I wonder if you can have elective blindness. Doubtful.
It’s bright.
My dad’s next to the bed, his back to me, looking out a little window. Teal blinds topped with a fat floral swag. Sun levering through. A small-town hospital room.
The nurse catches my eye and winks. She looks at me like she knows I need time to come to. Keeps her mouth shut but stays close, near the head of the bed. I’m under what feels like a hundred blankets. And still cold. An ache. Deep. But it’s morning. And I’m here in it.
I pull one hand out and cover my eyes.
“John.” The nurse’s voice is kind. “She’s awake.”
