Lovely, Dark and Deep

by Amy McNamara

  I drop the bread.

  “She’s alone at your house, and you’re here with me?”

  He nods. “Where else would I be?” Puts the bread back into my hand. “Will you please eat? I’m not going to talk to you about this unless you eat something.”

  “Fine.” I take a bite and chew, purposefully. Like I’m in a commercial for bread. He rolls his eyes at me.

  “She came to tell me I should come back to the program. That they’d take me. Let me go overseas, finish Barcelona with her.”

  Even though he’s sitting here, with me, not her, two hot spots appear on my cheeks. I knew it.

  My stomach drops. He shouldn’t stay here, she’s right, he should go back to school.

  “And?”

  “And what?” he says.

  He points to my food. I dip the bread again.

  “I said no.” Sighs.

  “Just like that?”

  He drinks some water.

  “She didn’t take it too well. It wasn’t exactly the civil good-bye I had planned. She was pissed I was out all night, that I was planning to come back over here again.”

  My face is still hot. I can’t put more food in my mouth. I look at my hands in my lap. Think about what he’s saying, what he’s still walking away from. I look up at him.

  “Cal, she’s right. You should go back to the program. You don’t need to be up here hiding out. My dad told me about last night—how you came after me. If you can tear into the woods after someone like me, you’re not too sick to stick with architecture.”

  His eyes. Tonight they’re dark gray. While I talk they move from annoyed to thoughtful. He fixes them on me in a way that makes everything else fall away.

  “I know. You might be right. I’m thinking about it, going back to school, but not because of Susanna. Or Barcelona, for that matter. It’s something I have to figure out, for me, what I am going to do. It was a mistake to let her come up here. Brought up old feelings, expectations, plans. That’s her life now, not mine. It was dumb, but I thought we could end it better. Or something.”

  “So you just left her there?”

  “Believe me, she wasn’t going to come over here,” he says.

  I shake my head.

  “That’s not what I meant, and you know it. She’s alone? At your place?”

  “Wren, I left her at the house for me, not you.” He takes my hand, pries it open, sticks the spoon in it. “I wouldn’t be anywhere else today, tonight.”

  I stare at him. This can’t be my life.

  “I needed to be with you—know you weren’t about to fling yourself into the ocean or get eaten by a lynx.”

  He runs a hand through his hair, pushing it back from his eyes. It falls forward again.

  I must still look incredulous, because he says, “She’ll be fine once she calms down. There’s food, clean sheets, a car is coming for her in the morning. I said good-bye.”

  He tears off a small chunk of bread and tosses it in my bowl. Chowder splatters on me.

  It’s a lot to take in. He left her. To be here, with me. Maybe this is what it’s supposed to feel like, love, steady in the face of things.

  We eat in silence. Beyond us, the ocean’s moon-bright and loud.

  After we clean up, we slide, holding hands, on sock feet back to my room, climb quietly into my little bed.

  Just before we fall asleep, he whispers, “You have promises to keep, and miles to go before you sleep.”

  It comes to me.

  “Robert Frost,” I mumble, on the edge of a dream.

  “You were trying to say it last night.”

  Pulls me toward him, tight. We fall asleep.

  hard

  to argue

  against

  the

  evidence

  THE LIBRARY DOOR swings open wide and a blast of frigid air races across the floor to my ankles. My bones are cold still, holding an ache like a grudge.

  “John,” Lucy says, looking up, smiling. She tucks a wisp of gray hair behind her ear and cocks her head over to the reference desk where I’m standing, trying to repair a collection of nursery rhymes that came back to us, four pages so exuberantly read they’re nearly torn from the book entirely.

  “What’s going on?” I ask, my heart racing a little. It’s bizarre to see Dad in here.

  “Nothing.” He smiles, striding toward me. “This place smells good, doesn’t it?” He looks up at the vaulted ceiling, inhales deeply.

  I nod, eyeing him. Out of the studio midday. Something’s definitely up.

  “Zara and I are making lunch at Mercy House. We’d like to spring you early, have you join us. If it’s okay with Lucy, of course.”

  Lucy laughs, peering at us over the top of her reading glasses. “I think I can handle the rush,” she says, waving her arm around the empty space.

  I look at him a minute, let him know I’m on to him, I know this isn’t a casual lunch. His eyes crinkle around the corners and he laughs.

  “Come on,” he says, “don’t look at me like that. Get your coat.”

  I follow him to Mercy House in the Jeep.

  He pulls around to the back of the house, and I follow suit. He takes an old key out of his pocket and lets us into the back pantry, right off the kitchen. We kick off our snowy boots on the mat and slip in past the warm ovens in our socks.

  Zara’s at the long worktable, waiting for us.

  “There you are,” she says, looking up. “I’m making thirty potpies.”

  She gestures to rows of small round oven crocks, topped with golden pastry, and floury circles of dough at her elbow.

  “Wren,” she says, “Would you mind washing your hands and using that brush to cover these with the egg wash?”

  I look back at my dad. I have no idea what’s going on. Something’s coming, though, I know that much.

  “Sure,” I say, moving to the sink.

  My dad strides to Zara and gives her a loud kiss.

  “Full house?” he asks.

  “And then some,” she says, with a laugh. “It’s good I’m—”

  He cuts her off. “Let’s finish these pies and then sit and eat, shall we?” It’s like he’s nervous.

  I stand next to her elbow and paint egg wash on the edges of the filled dishes. My dad drops the dough rounds on the top and crimps them to the bowl with a joy he reserves for the kitchen. I follow him with the brush again and coat the tops so they’ll brown and glisten when they’re done.

  Zara does a fast count, then, satisfied, moves to one of the ovens and pulls out a tray with three lovely pies on it.

  “These,” she says, “are ours. You guys hungry?”

  I am. I am hungry. It’s a good feeling.

  We wash up and take seats at the end of the table.

  “So,” my dad starts, after we’ve all had a few bites, “we’re making a few changes.” He eyes me. “In our routine. All of us.”

  Something curls inside me. Tight. Hard. Consequences. Apparently you can’t accidentally freeze yourself and expect to go back to normal.

  “Wren,” my dad says, “it’s not that we don’t trust you.”

  My stomach falls.

  “John.” Zara puts her hand on his arm.

  He looks at her, starts again.

  “I know what happened—it was a mistake, a misunderstanding about the weather, and so on.”

  He’s beating around the bush, like my mother does. Avoiding saying something. Speaking euphemistically. And it’s about me. What I did.

  I feel ill, the chicken on my fork is the color of a damp bandage, the peas pale.

  Dad clears his throat. Here it comes.

  “I’ve asked Zara to come live with me, us, move in, to try it for a while.”

  He takes a sip of water and then keeps the glass raised before his face. Prismatic. Looks at me over the top of it, squinting across the shine.

  Even though I like Zara, all I can think is that he’s trying to ditch me or something, pass me off
onto her, like I’m too much to handle. It’s sour inside me.

  “Well, that’s a big step,” I say, sarcastic. “Congratulations. I’m so happy for you both.”

  Zara looks pained.

  “Come on, Wren,” he says, plunging his fork into the pie again. “Don’t take it that way.”

  “How am I supposed to take it? You’re only doing this because you don’t trust me. Can’t we just put it behind us? Have everything to go back to normal? Or whatever it was before the other night?”

  “It’s not about you, and it’s not that we don’t trust you—” he starts.

  She puts her hand over his. They both fall silent. Their silence makes it worse.

  “That’s such bull, Dad. Why don’t you just say it?” My voice is louder than I intend. “It’s not that we don’t trust you,” I mimic, feeling ugly. “It’s exactly that you don’t trust me.” I turn to Zara. “Have you considered his sudden commitment to you is because he needs a babysitter for his crazy daughter?”

  It’s a cheap shot. I would take it back if I could. I watch her face, expecting to see hurt. Instead she looks sad for me.

  “Wren.” My dad sets the fork down, wipes his mouth, fixes his eyes on me. “Zara and I have been talking about this for a long time. I should have included you, let you know more about my life. I guess I thought you had enough going on. You’re angry. I see that. I’ve made mistakes, I know.”

  He pushes away from the table, goes to a cabinet near the refrigerator, and pulls out a bottle of wine. Pours himself a glass. Raises an empty glass at Zara. She shakes her head no.

  “And now that you’re up here—I’m trying. We’ll be around more. All of us. The house is too quiet. You’re alone too much.”

  I let out an exasperated breath. I want to push away from the table and walk out of the kitchen. But it would totally prove their point. Loose cannon. I sit tight.

  Dad comes back to the table. Sits noisily in his chair.

  “Eat.”

  I pick up my fork. Use it to scratch at a bit of baked-on crust.

  “Sometimes,” Zara says, her voice soft, “when people are depressed, I think it’s because they’re not able to say something, something true about themselves.”

  Her words fly through me. Shear a path that hurts. I don’t really know what she means, but it feels like she’s telling me something big, important, hard.

  “This is a good thing, Wren,” my dad insists. “I don’t think you need a babysitter. I think you need some family.”

  “It’s a little late for that, Dad.”

  I shove away from the table. My chair scrapes across the floor. It’s loud. They both startle like I’ve swung at them. Suddenly I get that they’re afraid of me, or more precisely, for me. I lean against the cupboard doors. Cover my face with my hands.

  Dad clears his throat.

  “You came up here because you were in trouble. I’ve been too absent. I want to know more about where you are and what you’re doing. I want us to spend more time together.”

  Tears slip down my cheeks. Now he wants to be a full-service dad. How’d I get so lucky.

  “You don’t trust me,” I say, ashamed, wiping my face. Apparently I cry all the time now.

  Neither of them says a word.

  My dad lifts his fork, spears a bit of Zara’s food. Talks while he chews. “Get your hands back on your camera and start a photo project. Organize a shooting schedule, work with someone. I’m not trying to be rigid here—”

  “I’m already working at the library.” My energy’s gone. I’m the only one fighting.

  “I just want you to be less isolated. Make something. Do something so you’re not just drifting in your own thoughts.”

  “If we’re done, I’m going home. For a run,” I say quietly.

  My dad keeps his face expressionless. Says nothing a minute.

  “What, now I’m not supposed to run anymore? Not allowed?”

  I stalk over to the counter where I left my keys. Snatch them up, furious. Then turn around and face them.

  “I’m not planning to off myself,” I say. “If I were, I wouldn’t be standing here right now.” I’m shaking, I’m so angry.

  “You almost weren’t standing here right now,” my dad says quietly.

  He wins.

  “Enjoy your run.”

  say

  something

  true

  CAL’S JUST WALKING AWAY from the front door when I pull up to our house.

  “There you are,” he says, smiling.

  I put my head down on the steering wheel instead of getting out.

  Cal comes over.

  “Wren?”

  “I just fought with my dad. I don’t think that’s ever happened. Not that I can remember, anyway.”

  “Come on,” he says, pulling the car door open. Offering me his hand.

  I slip past him, into the house, into my room.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” he asks, leaning against my door frame.

  I don’t answer. I bend over the stacks of clothes on the shelf, pulling through them, looking for something to wear running. My clothes from the other night are still sitting stuffed in the bottom of the plastic bag the hospital sent home with us.

  “What are you doing?”

  I look at Cal for a second and then shake my head.

  “You don’t trust me either,” I say, finding another pair of running pants. I stalk off to the bathroom to change.

  “Wren, wait,” he follows me.

  I stop in the hall, yank my jeans off, one leg at a time, inside out. The gash on my shin from my wipeout has bloomed yellow. Looks like a sad banana.

  “He asked Zara to move in.”

  I glance up at him. He doesn’t look surprised. Relieved maybe, instead. Makes me angrier. “They’re handling me.” I say it as witheringly as possible, even though I’m not even really sure that’s what’s making me so mad. It’s another change, another thing to get my head around. Why is this so hard? It makes me feel like the crappiest person in the world.

  “Come on,” he starts, watching me like he heard everything I just thought. “You know it’s more than that, her moving in. They’re not doing it only for you. And having been handled myself, when I was having a rough time”—he takes a deep breath—“It doesn’t feel great, I know, but that doesn’t mean it’s not a good thing.”

  “You’re on their side.”

  “I think you’re having a hard time, and what happened the other night was scary.”

  Cal looks directly into my eyes, like he can catch me, hold me still, press his point into me, like I’ll take it better with all his insistence.

  I turn away from him, disgusted.

  “Please don’t be mad.”

  “Why not?” I yank my hair into a ponytail and head back into my room. He follows. “A woman I barely know is moving into my house to keep tabs on me. And you think it’s a great idea. What’s not to love?”

  I turn to face him.

  Cal sways a second and sags against the wall.

  I drop my sweatshirt on the floor and reach out to him.

  “Cal?”

  He closes his eyes a minute, both hands pressed against the wall. Nods.

  “Balance sucks today,” he says like it’s no big deal. An annoyance.

  Great. I’m making him sick. Sicker. All my anger leaves me.

  “I’ll skip the run today. It’s too soon anyway. It’d probably feel like shit. We’ll go back to your place, lie around and read?”

  I slip my arms around his waist. Want him to open his eyes and look at me again.

  “I’m sorry,” I say, starting to feel a little scared.

  Nothing.

  “It just feels bad, Zara moving in. Being watched all the time. Like you’re all babysitting me. Like I’m not trusted.” I let out a little laugh. “But it’s hard to argue against the evidence.” Try to keep it light.

  Finally, finally he opens his eyes. Looks at me.


  “Stop apologizing already. Go for your run. And no one’s babysitting you.” He kisses me. “We’ll go back to my place when you’re done. We can talk more then.”

  I pull away from him and go back to digging through my stuff for socks. I try hard not to entirely destroy the neat piles Zara’s made for me. When I look up again, Cal’s still leaning against the wall, eyes closed.

  “Are you sure you’re all right? I mean, I know I’m not supposed to say it, but you don’t look so good.”

  “Yeah.” He sounds annoyed. “Peachy. Just trying to get the room to stop spinning. I’ll lie on your bed and read while you’re gone.”

  I grab his arm and pull him to the bed. Stretched out, he’s almost longer than my mattress. I select The Blue Estuaries by Louise Bogan from a stack of books my mom bought and hand it to him. I’m supposed to be casual about this. It’s his deal. Takes all my willpower to pull on my socks and not climb onto the bed next to him.

  “Nice legs,” he says, sounding more like himself. Watches me while I do a few quick stretches. Lying across my bed like that, he reminds me of one of those marble-carved knights you see at the Victoria and Albert Museum in London. Life-size, stretched out on top of a sarcophagus. I shiver. Pull my sneakers out of the bag and sit on the floor to tie them. They’re stiff with something—saltwater, maybe. A hazy memory. Lots of them pushing in. My heart sinks. I dig around for my phone and earbuds.

  “Where are you going on this run?” Cal asks, rolling onto his side and propping himself up with an elbow.

  “Your house and back. I’ll take the trails to your road, then back again. Nowhere near the water. I’ll be fine. I promise.”

  “Susanna’s gone,” he says with a wry smile. “You don’t have to check. Do you still have to run?” He’s teasing me, but it’s there on his face, a twist of worry. Like I’m setting out to finish the job.

  I blush.

  “I’ll keep my ringer on loud if you want.”

  He laughs like we both know that’s over the top, a ridiculous concession, but nods anyway.

  I’m out the door.

  Alone.

  My first real minutes of solitude since I ran into Cal on the highway. I can still see the look on his face, on hers. Makes me sick. After I warm up, clear the house, and cross the road, I lean against a tree and try to breathe a minute. What was I thinking? I can’t make it out in my mind. How did I come so close? I didn’t mean to. I remember feeling hot. Like I was just going to sit and rest awhile, cool down. An involuntary shiver shakes me so hard I grip the tree. They’re right not to trust me.