“And how long does it take to get to the restaurant?” she followed.
“ ’Bout twenty, I guess.”
“If you travel slowly, especially on these roads right now?” It was a question, but it really was an order.
“Oh. Yes. If I were driving fast, I could get here in twenty and to the restaurant in ten. I don’t drive fast on dry roads or wet,” he added. “Accidents hurt.”
I looked at my mother. She had that glint in her eye that told me she was a little amused.
“Are you a Yankees fan?” my mother asked.
“What? Oh. This is my father’s hat. He’s an insane Yankees fan.”
“Not you?”
“Let me put it this way, Ms. Corey. If I were a baseball fan, it would be the Yankees just so I could coexist at home.”
I looked at my mother.
She smiled and nodded. “Peaceful coexistence is fine,” she said, and took on a stern expression. “If you want to have that with me, be careful.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Very careful. And of course, have a good time.”
“Will do both,” he said, winking a smile. At least, that was the way it looked to me.
I stepped outside. When he took his hands out of his pockets, I thought he wanted to take my hand but then quickly changed his mind as if he was afraid to do so in front of my mother and turned. I looked back at my mother, who watched us walk away before closing the door. She nodded. I knew she was worried just as any mother would be when her daughter was leaving on a date, but I was positive now that she was happy I was going out, too. In fact, her reaction to Dillon caused me to give him a second look.
“Your mother’s very pretty,” he said, reaching for the passenger’s door. He had a late-model Ford Taurus.
“Thank you.” I got in. “Is this your car or your family’s?” I asked when he’d gotten in.
“My mother and I share it. My father has a new BMW.” He started the engine and then paused a moment before shifting into drive. He leaned forward and looked up. “Who’s watching us?” he asked.
“What?” I leaned forward and looked. The curtain in my room was open, and Ryder was looking down at us. He was still in his dark blue pajamas. The sight of him there took my breath away.
“Is that your brother?”
Despite how much time had passed since my father had been revealed, it was still difficult to get used to someone referring to Ryder as my brother. I was sure that when it was first known and someone called Ryder my brother, I had a confused expression on my face. Of course, I didn’t want to think of him that way; I still didn’t.
“Yes.”
“I wondered if I’d meet him,” he said, and drove to the road. “I remember him well. He hasn’t gone anywhere since he’s been home, has he? I mean, he doesn’t see any of his old friends?”
“No.”
“None came by during the holiday? He was pretty popular.”
“No.”
“Maybe they’re just afraid.”
“Afraid? Why?”
“It takes courage to see someone you admire diminished like that. Does he get out of the house at all?”
Usually, I didn’t like talking about Ryder’s problems, but Dillon had a sincerity about him, even a little surprising compassion. Getting to know someone new was always difficult. You held back a lot. Most people were naturally distrustful, but my mother always taught me and believed that people had auras about them. Despite how they looked or even sounded, their true nature was right before your eyes. Something inside you sensed the positive about them if it was there. There was good energy. Right now, I thought I saw that in Dillon. I was fearful, however. I was simply too out of practice when it came to caring about friendships and relationships. It all required a level of trust I hadn’t given anyone besides my mother and Mr. Stark for some time.
“He goes out with my father occasionally. For walks and some cross-country skiing on the grounds,” I said. I was still determined not to get too specific.
“So he’s otherwise pretty healthy?”
“Yes.”
“I guess amnesia is like being in a sort of prison. He’s at quite a disadvantage, too, not knowing whom he can trust and whom he can’t.”
Oh, how true that was, I thought. I looked away, my heart still racing from seeing that Ryder had gone into my room. His room didn’t have a view of the front of the mansion. How did he know I was leaving? Or had he gone into my room looking for me and just looked out the window, perhaps hearing us speak below? What would have brought him to my room?
Either because of my mother’s warning or because of his own caution, Dillon drove very slowly over the recently plowed street. It was a partly cloudy day, vacillating from dark and gloomy to bright, which was how I felt, too, bouncing from one emotion to another.
He looked very thoughtful. “I guess you were surprised I called,” he said. “Didn’t expect it, right?”
“Dillon, I hardly know you, but somehow I doubt anyone can predict what you’ll do from one moment to another, even your parents,” I said.
He laughed. “My mother says the same thing, only she says ‘even your father.’ ”
“Why is that? Why are you so unpredictable?”
“Maybe because I rely on how I feel rather than what I know is expected,” he said. “Hemingway wrote that you should rely on your intuition. I always thought he was right.”
“So if I feel something is right, I should do it no matter what anyone else says?”
“I think so. In the end, if you’re not happy doing something or not doing something, what have you accomplished?”
“But that puts your own happiness over everyone else’s,” I said. Nothing could have hit the bull’s-eye in my troubled thoughts more sharply.
“I don’t know about you, but being around someone who is unhappy, deeply unhappy, makes me miserable.”
“You don’t think I’m deeply unhappy?” I asked, really curious.
He paused and looked at me. “Hey, you’re the one getting deep and heavy now, not me. Don’t blame me. I mean, I’m just taking you to lunch to read my poem. Sometimes things are not much more than they seem.”
What was he saying? Did he mean I shouldn’t think he had any other interest in me?
“Yes, but you started it. You’re the one who said I was probably surprised you called.”
“Well, I’m not afraid to admit I was surprised you accepted my invitation.”
“You don’t act like someone with any lack of self-confidence,” I said. “You didn’t sound very doubtful when you asked me.”
“You already know how good an actor I am.” When he looked at me this time, he raised his eyebrows in anticipation.
I smiled. I did go home wondering about him last night, despite how irritating he was at times. Right now, I was enjoying him, although I wasn’t going to let him know that so fast.
“I’ll hold my judgment on that. We’ll see how good you are at the audition.”
“You know, if we get the parts, we’ll have to learn how to stay up all night and sleep all day. Just to stay in character, of course.”
“Very funny. So tell me about your new poem.”
“No.”
“No?”
“You’ll read it, and you’ll tell me about it,” he said.
“I take back what I said. You don’t cover up your lack of self-confidence well. You don’t have a lack of self-confidence.”
He smiled. “I look at it this way,” he said, quickly turning serious again. “You’ll never lack for people putting you down in your life, so why do it to yourself? And before you say it, yes, I’m a bit arrogant, but let me also say that the line between arrogance and self-confidence is shady anyway. Those who wish they had self-confidence always accuse you of arrogance. It makes them feel better about their weakness.”
“So you really do think you’re better than everybody?”
He shrugged and smiled at me. “
Just people I’ve met. Until now,” he quickly added.
I sat back. I didn’t want him to see my face. I was sure I was looking pleased, maybe too pleased. What I really feared was investing my feelings in anyone else as fast as someone who was starving for attention might.
And that was surely me when it came to any sort of romantic relationship: someone starving for attention.
“Tell me about this restaurant, Nature’s Ways. I’ve never heard about it.”
“They’re into all this organic food, great salads, basically vegetarian. I’ve never seen anyone from our school there, so I’m not surprised you’ve never heard of it.”
“You’re into all that?”
“Yes. I’m arrogant about my food, too. I expect it to improve my health, not challenge it. Needless to say,” he continued, turning to me, “I drive my mother and father nuts when it comes to dinner and eating out.”
“I bet.”
“What was it like being prom queen last year?” he asked, pivoting quickly back to me.
“Fun.” After a pause, I added, “For five minutes.”
He nodded. “Of course, like everyone else, I heard all about what happened. I watched how you handled yourself during all that commotion at school. I thought you were pretty cool for a ninth-grader.”
“I didn’t feel cool. I felt terrified. And I didn’t know you were watching me. In fact, I can’t recall you saying a word to me, much less looking my way.”
He made a few more turns, reached a side street in town, and slowed to turn into it.
“There it is,” he said, indicating the restaurant and ignoring what I had said. It was on the corner, with a very simple sign above the entrance in large black Gothic letters. “I recommend the pesto salad, but I always favor the peanut butter, honey, and banana sandwich if you want a sandwich,” he said as he pulled up to the curb. “They have great salads and soups, too, and other entrees.”
We got out of the car, and he walked ahead to open the restaurant’s door for me. Some customers paused in their eating and talking to glance at us. He was right about the music. It was vintage Bob Dylan. The hostess, a woman who looked to be in her fifties, with her graying dark brown hair falling wildly about her neck and shoulders, smiled and approached. She wore an abbreviated apron over a pair of jeans and a dark blue blouse. She didn’t wear any makeup or jewelry.
“Hi, Dillon,” she said. “Your favorite booth just opened up.”
“Serendipity,” he said. “Thanks, Maya.”
She smiled at me and led us to a booth in the far right corner. The restaurant itself was as simple as the sign above the entrance: about a dozen tables and four booths on the right side. The cork-panel walls had scattered framed prints of nature scenes, ranging from rivers running through valleys to mountain vistas and wildly overgrown fields. There were no portraits or scenes with people or animals. The kitchen was in the rear and open. I saw the chef and two assistants, who were quite busy.
The waiter who approached us also looked well into his fifties. He wore dark blue jeans and a flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.
“Welcome,” he said, handing us the menus. “Cranberry juice?” he asked Dillon.
“Sure. They have interesting fruit teas,” he told me.
“I’ll have the same, cranberry juice,” I said.
“It’s pure cranberry,” Dillon warned. “Not sugary sweet.”
“I’ll dip my finger in it,” I replied.
His bluish-green eyes brightened more than I had seen. “Two then, please, Breck,” he told the waiter.
“Right,” he said, and walked off.
“I guess you do come here often. Favorite booth? Maya? Breck?”
“They like to know their customers and for me vice versa. This is no fast-food joint.”
I looked at the menu. “Shepherd’s pie?”
“It’s made with tofu,” he said. “Soy.”
“I’ll have to try it and tell my mother.”
“Well, then, maybe I’ll have the spinach lasagna. So,” he said, folding the menu and sitting back, “how did your mother get to Wyndemere?”
“I think a limousine, but it might have been a bus.”
He bit down on his lower lip but kept his smile. “And I thought I was going to be the wise-ass in this couple.”
“Are we a couple?”
“Two people are usually referred to as a couple,” he said, not skipping a beat or having even a tint of a blush.
The waiter returned with our drinks, and Dillon gave him our order.
“Okay,” Dillon said. “No small talk.” He reached into his top pocket and took out a folded piece of paper. “I’ve shown my poetry only to Mr. Feldman, my English teacher,” he said. “I haven’t even shown them to my parents. Parents are probably the worst critics because they’ll always tell you something like ‘nice’ or ‘terrific,’ just to get rid of you.” He held the paper firmly between his thumb and forefinger and looked like he was still debating whether to give it to me.
“Why did you want me to read it, then? I mean, why me?”
“Somehow I thought you might appreciate it, and I think you’ll be honest. You didn’t hesitate to give me your opinions last night.”
“Neither did you.”
“Birds of a feather.” He handed me the paper.
I unfolded it slowly and sat back.
There is a suddenness of birds this morning, a blast of premature spring.
Nature is stirred by me and not vice versa.
I rose with expectations because the sunlight was inside me washing away the clouds of sleep, which has always been an escape.
But not today.
Today I want to be, to enjoy every one of my senses.
Today I am like Lazarus.
My mind dares to imagine. I am stirred, touched, reborn.
I will not give what’s happening to me a name; I will not reduce it to a word.
Like a newborn baby, I will reach out to see if it is truly there.
And then, only then, will I risk a whisper.
Even though I had finished reading, I kept my eyes on the paper. I could feel Dillon’s intense look, his expectations. I deliberately reread it. I wasn’t simply making him wait; I wanted to sound intelligent.
“It’s deeply moving,” I said. “What makes it effective is how simple it seems, but it’s far from that. It’s . . . full of surprise. If you really had this feeling, I envy you.”
A tiny smile formed around his lips. “Go on. Be a little more specific.”
I looked around. “Am I in a spotlight?”
He laughed.
I looked at the poem again. “I especially like the line ‘Nature is stirred by me.’ ”
“Why?”
“The narrator is feeling a unique sense of power, control. I like that. He’s not a victim. Usually we react to nature, not nature to us. Rainy days put us in a certain mood, just like sunny days. The narrator feels . . . strong, perhaps hopeful. The poem is full of hope, but there is also a sense of fear. At least to me,” I added.
“How can you tell that?”
“He’s cautious . . . ‘only then will I risk a whisper.’ Even a whisper is a risk.”
“That’s pretty good,” he said, reaching to take the paper back. “Would you say you liked it?”
“Very much. I like things that make me think more deeply. What are you going to title it?”
“I don’t know, but nothing as trite as ‘Resurrection’ or something like that.” He folded it up and put it back into his pocket.
I looked away. Although I wasn’t a poet, his poem could easily be my poem, I thought. I wondered if he knew that and had wanted me to read it because he thought it would find a welcome home in my heart.
“What are you going to do with it?”
“Do with it?”
“Send it to the newspaper or a magazine?”
“No. I’m not ready to do that. Sometimes I write simply to get wha
t’s inside me out. Just as you suggested last night.”
Breck brought our food.
“Smells delicious,” I said.
“Careful, it’s hot.”
“So really, what made you choose me to read your poem?” I asked, and blew on a forkful of my shepherd’s pie.
“Hemingway. Intuition,” he said. “We all have a third eye. Not all of us use it, of course, but when I looked at you with my third eye, I thought, there’s someone who knows, someone who’s been there.”
“Been where?”
“The land of disappointment, despair.”
“And you’ve been there?”
“Yes. How’s the shepherd’s pie?” he asked, obviously to avoid getting into any detail.
“It’s different, of course, but it’s very tasty. I’ll have to tell Mrs. Marlene.”
“Mrs. Marlene? Who’s that?”
“The cook at Wyndemere. My mother can cook, but it’s not her forte.”
“Your mother was a singer, right?”
“She tried to be a professional singer many years ago. Ivy tell you that?”
“Yes.”
We ate quietly for a while. I was thinking how he was inquiring after me all this time and I had no idea. He was good at keeping that secret. I truly couldn’t recall him giving me so much as a passing glance in school, yet I sensed I shouldn’t press him on it. Talking with him now, as it was before, was like walking slowly and carefully over thinning ice.
And I was afraid to think it, afraid I was the one being too arrogant, but I had the impression I was in his poem in another way. I was that mysterious feeling he was afraid to assign a word to; I was the risk.
“So how is your brother really?” he asked.
“He’s struggling with the gaps.”
“I imagine that when he realizes things, when something specific about his accident returns to him, it’s going to be quite traumatic. It’s almost like a secret that’s been kept from him.”
“Yes, I suppose it is.”
Of course, it was, but I wasn’t about to tell Dillon why.
He looked away and then back at me. I could see in the expression on his face that he was battling with himself to tell me something. We all have secrets, I thought, and hate to have them pried out.
Secrets needed trust, and trust was not easy to find or believe. Apparently, he had found some in me. Another reason he wrote the poem, I thought.
Echoes in the Walls Page 12
