by Amy McNamara
“Here’s to your damn health,” she says, raising her glass.
We drink.
I make a small salad. Meredith sets the table. Before we sit, I text Cal. Having Meredith here makes me feel weird, like there’s a possibility Cal doesn’t exist, like he was something I dreamed up.
It makes my heart race to imagine them meeting, but I invite him over. Read through his last few texts to me. He was working on something. I take a deep breath. Maybe it’s stuff for school. He’s getting ready to make a case for going back to Cornell. Whatever it is, he’s been busy for days.
Meredith watches me with curiosity, says nothing.
We move to the table.
“I’m kind of seeing someone up here,” I offer, finally.
She grins. “I knew it!” Takes a huge bite of frittata. “God, this is delicious.” Looks at me. “See? You’re not in such bad shape.”
My phone beeps.
It says, CAN’T. BUSY. SORRY.
“Shit.” My heart sinks. Not that I can really picture the three of us hanging out, but still.
“Trouble in paradise?”
I shake my head. Disappointed. Try not to let it show.
She eyes me a second, then chooses not to mention the look she just read on my face. Teases me instead, “So you hooked up with a local. . . .”
“Shut up.” I fling a cherry tomato at her. “His name’s Cal. He and his brother went to Auden. His dad’s an architect, did this place.”
“Auden,” she sighs, weary. “Way to branch out. This world is too damn small.”
I lean back in my chair and toss my phone onto the counter. Swallow. Not sure why I feel so nervous again all of a sudden.
“He’s doing architecture. At Cornell.” Small lie.
Her brow furrows. “So, it’s long distance? I don’t get it. What’s he doing up here?”
“An internship.” I’m vague about the details.
“Grad school?” she says, fingering a chain around her neck. I spot a small diamond hanging from it. “An older man . . . ?”
“Undergrad. And he’s only three years older—” I stop. “Like Matt.”
Suddenly I don’t want to talk about Cal anymore. Like words might wreck it. Meredith will say something. Make me feel weird. Kill how I feel about him. Like talking to her about Cal might pull him, us, into my old world and I won’t be able to find my way back out again or something.
She tops off our jelly jars. One bottle down. I can feel it in my face.
“And you didn’t think I’d want to hear about him? That hurts, Wells.”
“You’ll meet him,” I say, before I can stop myself. “Tomorrow. He’s busy tonight. Working on something. We’ll go over there when I get off work.”
We’re quiet a minute, eating. I forgot how drinking does this, makes me ravenous. Or maybe it’s Zara’s food. Right now it feels like I need sustenance and by some miracle it’s here in front of me.
“Your job,” she laughs, looking a little rosy herself. “Where’d you get that one? I don’t know how you can sit in that dingy library all day. You have to admit, it’s kind of pathetic, Wren.”
“Don’t bash the job,” I say. “I like it. Besides, the dinginess is part of the charm.”
“You always had weird taste,” she says. She takes another bite, chews slowly, like she’s weighing whether or not to say something, then leans over her plate toward me, all drunk serious.
“Your mother told me everything.”
Of course. God knows what she means by “everything.”
“Oh?”
She lowers her voice, like there’s anyone around to hear us. “You know, your—misadventure? She’s pretty worried.”
I say nothing.
She picks five fat olives from the salad and pokes them onto the tops of her fingers. Wiggles them at me like tentacles or something. Gauging my mood.
I keep eating.
She makes a crazy face, tries to be funny. “It sounded pretty weird—what were you thinking with that whole popsicle episode? God, Mamie, you could be dead right now.”
It almost makes me laugh. Something about the right now. Like dead isn’t always, never anything again. Like it’s a state you’d keep checking on.
Still dead.
Dead right now.
And now. And now.
I can’t look at her. Obviously my mother didn’t hold back. Why would she? I used to tell Meredith everything.
Shit. Shit.
She gives up, pushes back from the table.
“Time for that other bottle,” she says, moving toward the kitchen.
“Mer—”
But I’ve got nothing. The good drunk feeling is turning into the slow, heavy drunk feeling.
She pops the second cork, letting it fly my direction, and does a little dance on the way back to the table. Some of the champagne bubbles out and onto the floor.
“God. It’s so silent in here. How can you stand it? We have to put on some music.”
I want her to leave. I don’t want to be here, with her, like this right now, pretending everything’s normal, just like it was. She dances to an imagined beat and pours more in my glass.
“Don’t worry, I won’t tell anyone about it,” she offers, cheerfully. Then, “Seriously, Wells.” Her face shifts into one of exaggerated concern. “I can see you’re not going to talk about it, but you’re not planning another stunt like that or anything, are you? I mean, I’m glad you’re all right. It’s just a little weird, that’s all.”
“Thanks.” I shake my head.
She clears a few of our dishes while I sit and watch the bubbles shimmy to the top of my glass. Little chaotic paths. Or probably not. Probably the opposite of chaos, that bizarre order you find in the natural world, something very specific, very scientific, driving the path of their ascent. Patrick would know. He knew stuff like that. And he thought champagne was ridiculous. Whenever we drank it, he’d snag my glass, raise it to his face, and proclaim big nose, full body in this idiotic voice he thought sounded British or French or something. Every time. It’s a crime to remember something so stupid about someone who died.
“So, Recluse”—Meredith wallops me on the back with renewed cheer—“the only way we’re ever going to get caught up is if you read some of these.”
She leans over the couch, her gold necklace trickling out of the V of her sweater, the little diamond dangling bright in the light, grabs my bag, and dumps the two ribbon-wrapped stacks of letters on the table next to me. She has got to be kidding.
She’s not.
She’s drawing a line, assigning penance, her face stiff with purpose.
I don’t like how this feels, but it’s important to her. I can see that. She needs me to do it.
I pick up the remaining silverware and napkins on the table and bring them to the sink. I linger before the dishes a minute. She eyes me. The whole mood’s shifted, the way it does when you drink. Mercurial. Dangerous.
“You read. I’ll call Matt.”
She climbs over the back of the couch and lies on her back with her phone. Like we’re both about to do something fun. Something we want to do. In a second the house is filled with her flirty voice, laughing a lot. She has a life full of people I don’t know, might never know. This guy, for one. Even though I’m the one who walked away, it’s hard to hear.
I bring the bundles over to the armchair near the window and stare at the stacks. Slip the ribbon off. She organized them by date and mailed them to her house, some addressed to Mamie WhereTheHellEverYouAre Wells c/o Your Only Remaining Friend Meredith at her address, the inky red postmarks an accusing march through time. So many days between then and now.
I slide my finger under the flaps of a few, only the most recent. I can’t go in any farther than that. My heart’s pounding so hard it vibrates me a little, fluttering the edge of her pages slightly, like a moth wing. I’m disoriented again. Back there. But here, too.
I let the letter fall into my lap.
Meredith talks to Matt forever, hopping up once to top off both our glasses, while I blink, unseeing, at the rest of her words to me. Her phone conversation is full of names I don’t know and new inside jokes. Jokes I’m outside. When you don’t listen for meaning, speech takes on a rhythm that’s not unlike how waves batter the shore. I look out the window. Through my reflection, I can kind of see the snow coming down on the water. From nowhere into nowhere.
“That’s all you read?” she asks, finally ending the call and coming over to where I’m sitting.
“I can’t do it,” I tell her, even though at this minute, I’m terrified to say so. Her anger at me is palpable. I look up. “I can’t read them. Go back there.”
She’s silent a minute. Narrows her eyes. Stands her ground, the brewing fight ugly between us. I wish she’d just say what I can hear screaming around inside her.
But she holds back. Lets out a short, sharp blast of air. Wordless frustration. Nothing more. A hand up to smooth her hair.
We need something to do. I go to the kitchen and grab scissors. Two pairs.
“What’re you doing?” she asks carefully, after I come back to the chair and start to cut.
“They’re mine, right? For me? I mean, it’s up to me what I do with them?”
She nods slowly, watching me unfold, smooth, and refold her words.
“Snowflakes,” I say, feeling a little drunk and relieved, like now the night’s going somewhere, like I can actually make something nice out of this train wreck we’re in.
“Snowflakes.” She speaks slowly, looking at me like I’m demented.
“Squares, then triangles,” I instruct, pointing to the second pair of scissors on the floor near my foot.
She doesn’t move. I look at the half-empty glass in her hand, the empty bottle over by the couch. This can’t end well.
I open the letters and flatten them with my palm. There’s an order to the folding, a calm plan, basic, easy to follow. Originality comes in later, when you make your cuts. I smooth her sharp words flat, then muffle them in folds. I catch sight of Patrick and for a second the scissors are heavy as lead, but I lift them anyway, force open their rusty jaw, cut away the crushing words. Each snip straightens my spine until I’m solid as a tree, upright. I’m in the eye of a paper storm, a blizzard of irretrievable time between us.
“I have no idea who you are, Mamie,” she says at last, angrily swiping a tear away from her cheek. It’s only when I hear the door open that I look up.
“Where are you going?” I ask, thinking for one crazy second she’s heading out for a run herself.
“The studio. That Nick guy said he’d show a movie.”
The door slams, loud.
flinch
MORNING’S FAST, bright, and hard. The champagne’s a drum in my head, a wake in my stomach. I open one eye.
Dad’s wire bird floats on a string in the corner of my room. Twists a little in the hot, dry air when the heat comes on. It’s innocent, hanging there. And lucky to be wire. Free of complications like the awful bloody rhythm pulsing in my temples.
I open the other eye. Meredith’s on top of me. It’s always been like this. Every sleepover, I wake up, a million degrees, her legs slung over mine, pressing me flat to the bed.
She didn’t leave. That’s good.
I nudge her a little, try to ignore the creeping unease moving over me.
“Bed hog,” I try, propping myself up on one elbow.
She doesn’t stir. She’s sleeping so hard, her mouth’s open. I can see all her perfect teeth. I check the time on my phone. If I get up now, I won’t be late for work. I lift one of her eyelids with my finger.
“Ugh.” She bats my hand away. “Quieter, please.” Covers her face with a pillow.
She’s speaking to me. A second good sign.
“Some of us have to go to work.” I toss back the covers.
“Not me,” she says from under the pillow, groping to pull the blankets back up.
I can hear Zara in the kitchen. It’s the best sound I’ve heard in a long time. They must have come back late. Dad can’t be up yet. He’s never up early. I smell eggs. Oh, Zara.
“I have responsibilities.”
I stand up. Hold my head a minute.
“Shut up,” she moans. “I’m sleeping.”
“Sleep as long as you want. I’ll tell Zara not to bother you. Meet you back here around three when I get off?”
She doesn’t answer, but if how terrible she looks right now is any predictor, she’ll still be here when I get back. I grab a T-shirt, hoodie, and her new, cute jeans off the floor. Bed rent. She’s spread eagle under my quilt.
Zara’s quiet during breakfast. Slides me the paper. Puts a pile of ham and eggs on my plate. Doesn’t ask me a thousand questions. I’m grateful. We eat, then she brings me to the library.
Lucy’s gone most of the morning. In and out, mostly out. I check my phone a thousand times. Nothing from Cal. I’m on edge. Jittery. I should have gone for a run. Worked off the hangover, Meredith’s arrival. I can’t shake the uneasiness.
It’s like I’m swaying on a high wire, balancing over two sides of something I can’t identify, something important, and the slightest gust of wind or turn of phrase could push me one way or the other.
Anxious. Excited. Old life. Now. Here. Then.
I finish shelving and prep more drop-off orders. Work until there’s nothing left for me to do. Then I sit at the big table near the front window and flip through the stack of books Lucy left for me to read. She does that. My personal librarian. Emily Dickinson, Flannery O’Connor, Frank O’Hara, Salinger, Lowell. Lucy Shepherd doesn’t talk much, but the books she leaves say plenty.
I pick up Franny and Zooey. We read it in tenth grade. Before we started on the Russian novelists. I liked the Glass family, how they swelled and contracted around their kids. And Zooey, especially, so cool in the face of Franny’s drama. I fan the pages, try to find a passage I like, then I set it down again. It’s hopeless. The words shift and turn. I can’t make them mean anything today.
I text Cal. Say I’ll be by later.
No reply.
My stomach pitches and plummets, a wild up-and-down slide. I tell myself he’s not suddenly blowing me off. Of course not. Why would he be? But he hasn’t said a word about whatever it is he’s working on. It’s probably school. He’s getting ready to go back, get out of here.
I would kill for a run.
I look at the clock above the window. Fifty minutes left. Fifty minutes between me and going back to face Meredith, maybe bringing her to Cal. I look up at the clock again. Still fifty minutes. I can’t just slip out. Meredith might find it mockable, but I like this job. Lucy’s counting on me to be here.
I stand up and walk around. Circle the stacks. I have to do something with this energy. I pick up O’Hara’s Lunch Poems. Lucy says he wrote them strolling around the city on his lunch break from his job at MoMA. I recite a few to the empty room.
I toss O’Hara on a table and pick up my pace. Just me and the books. A lot of dead writers. All those left-behind words. I’m circling the library like a crazy person or one of those old people who exercise by walking around shopping malls. I’m sure I look insane. But I have to keep moving. Feels closer to anxiety than excitement.
I try the breathing Dr. Williams talked about. It helps, sort of. I gulp air, hold it, let it go again slowly, and try to think this panic through. Drinking last night. Last night itself. Like old times. Only not at all. Like I’d been snapped back to before anything happened, but not. Makes me dizzy. Or maybe it’s the walking in circles.
I miss Meredith all of a sudden. It kind of seems hopeful between us, that confrontation we had, or whatever it was, maybe it’s over now. I need it to be over. I hope she and Nick didn’t do anything she’ll regret, and that she’s still asleep in my bed.
It’s like she let herself into the box I have myself tucked away in, and now it’s catching up to me, all the time I’ve been gone.
All the ways I used to be—laughing until I cried when it was Meredith’s behind sticking out of a crowded car that made the subway conductor shout over the speaker system, “Do not hold the doors!” Trying, and failing, to con the bartender on the roof deck of the Metropolitan to sell us salty martinis so we could toast ourselves and our excellent city while we pretended to look at whatever sculptures they had up there.
God, we laughed all the time. Did stuff. I used to be a person who did things. Then again, I also used to be able to think about whatever popped into my mind. Without flinching. Or worrying that it was going to be too much.
I think that’s it—last night I remembered what it felt like to be kind of normal. Like before. But not now. Not today. Today my heart won’t stop racing, and I can’t shake the sense that everything’s about to come down. I hope, hope, hope we’re not still fighting. More deep breathing.
I check my phone again. Still nothing from Cal.
must
be
love
MEREDITH’S STILL IN BED when I get back to the house. She’s got a pile of magazines on the floor next to her, but I also spot my copy of Larkin from Cal open on the quilt.
“Lazy.”
“Ha, ha,” she says, eyeing me somewhat coolly. “Nice jeans.”
I can’t read her voice, can’t tell if she’s still mad or not.
“Oh yeah,” I say, trying to sound lighthearted, “thanks for these.”
She tosses my book toward the foot of the bed.
“Seriously, Wren, you looked like a total hick yesterday with those baggy jeans of yours belted up like that.”
It’s a dig, but it means she’s not going to bring up last night. We’re in the clear, for now.
Her eye falls on the pile of clothes stacked against my wall.
“I would have gotten dressed already, but it’s not like I was going to put on a pair of your sorry jeans. God, Wren, at least come down for a weekend to do some shopping.”
“Come on.” I throw a pillow at her. “It’s not that bad.”
“It’s worse.” She rolls her eyes. “Look in the mirror much? You’ve lost your touch, Wells.” She laughs. “If I’d known how bad it was, I would have brought in supplies. Products, reinforcements from home.”
