Stalker Girl

by Rosemary Graham

  Isabelle had plenty of success, too. But it wasn’t the kind of success she wanted. Working at Bellwin was never supposed to be a career. It was supposed to be a day job, the thing she did until she could make a living as a writer. But over the years, the day job turned into a day, night, and weekend job. Writing time was squeezed into summers. Once Jess came along, it got even harder for Isabelle to find time to write, and impossible to even think of quitting. The job came with free tuition for her daughters—and in New York, where the good public schools are almost as hard to get into as the private ones, this was huge.

  In one of the fights Carly overheard, Nick offered to support Isabelle while she took time off to write. He said he’d pay tuition for both girls, but she wouldn’t let him. She said things were already uneven enough since he owned the loft. Plus she was so out of practice. And there were so many good, younger writers.

  But that spring things had quieted down, and Carly took the quiet to mean Nick and her mother were working things out. She’d been babysitting for Jess on Monday nights while they went to see a counselor. And on one of those Monday nights after putting Jess to bed, Carly had accidentally walked in on Nick and Isabelle making out. She hadn’t heard them come home when she wandered into the dark kitchen looking for something to eat. She flipped on the light to find her mother up against the counter with her blouse half unbuttoned and Nick awkwardly adjusting his pants.

  It was beyond embarrassing but at the same time reassuring. Carly thought it meant things were going to be okay. If they couldn’t keep their hands off each other until they got to the bedroom, that had to mean something, right?

  Plus hadn’t they gone away together just a few weeks before?

  When she got to her mother’s office, Carly asked about that weekend getaway.

  “Oh. Honey, that wasn’t a romantic thing,” Isabelle explained as she flipped through a pile of folders on her desk. “We went out of town so we could finally decide once and for all. We hashed it out and decided we were done. And now that we’ve decided, there’s no point in fighting.”

  “But that was weeks ago,” Carly said, trying to get her mother to look at her. But Isabelle wouldn’t look up from her desk.

  “We agreed to wait until the school year ended before taking any action.” She picked up the folders and rolled her chair over to the filing cabinet next to her desk. She placed the folders in the long drawer, closed it, and locked it.

  “Mom, you’re acting like this is no big deal. Like you didn’t just spend thirteen years with this person. Aren’t you upset? Aren’t you sad? Is this what you want?”

  Now Carly had her mother’s attention. Isabelle looked up her daughter. A hint of a tear glistened on the surface of one eye but then disappeared without falling.

  “The question isn’t what I want, Carly. It’s just what is. I have to accept it. And move forward. Come on, let’s get out of here. We’ll take a cab. I’m too tired for the subway.”

  Carly spent the whole cab ride staring out the window, wondering how she’d managed not to notice this pretty major thing happening right in front of her. Sure, she hadn’t seen them together a lot in the past month. But that wasn’t so unusual. Nick had a show coming up and was putting in long hours in his studio. He did that sometimes when he was under a deadline or caught up in an inspiration. He’d work through the night, taking power naps on the futon he kept in there.

  Isabelle seemed to be her usual busy self, dealing with the last of the wait-listers, meeting with next year’s crop of demanding parents. She’d been spending a lot of time in her room reading, but Carly hadn’t thought much of it. She figured it was just the usual end-of-the-school-year exhaustion.

  “Now I have to figure out the living situation.”

  “The living situation?”

  Carly turned to look at her mother but she was staring out the other cab window.

  “The loft is Nick’s. We’re going to have to leave.”

  When Carly and her mother moved in with Nick twelve years earlier, the Meatpacking District was still a place where they processed animals into meat, not the locale of hot clubs and designer boutiques. Nick’s huge loft was nothing but unfinished industrial space that still smelled slightly of the veal factory it once housed. There were no walls, no adequate heat, and not much in the way of plumbing except an old toilet and sink surrounded by plywood and a bathtub in the middle of the “kitchen,” which consisted of a hotplate and a microwave.

  It took four years and a lot of sweat to turn it into the huge, light-filled space it now was—with high ceilings, hardwood floors, and a kitchen with all the latest appliances.

  Though she’d never want to go back to those conditions, Carly looked back happily on the years of roughing it. Isabelle had her assistant’s job at Bellwin, but she kept a little desk set up in a corner of Nick’s studio, where she wrote at night and on the weekends. They had a circle of artist and writer friends who would come over for big, loud spaghetti dinners where the talking and laughing would last late into the night.

  Nick worked nights tending bar and during the day worked on the loft renovations. So that they wouldn’t have to spend money on preschool, Carly stayed home with Nick while her mother worked. When other kids her age were gluing together popsicle-stick houses, she was sanding floors, installing drywall, and laying tile. Of course she mostly watched while Nick and a few hired guys did most of the real work, but Nick had always made her feel like she was a part of things. She’d fetch their tools, hold the measuring tape, vacuum sawdust.

  Nick let her pick out the exact spot along the wall of windows where she liked the view the best and then built her room around it. From her bed she could see across the Hudson to Jersey City or watch the cruise ships and tour boats come and go in the harbor. She’d spent many hours of her life looking out at that view, losing herself in daydreams. Girls at school were always impressed with Carly’s address and the size of the loft. While it was nice to have a lot of space and a great view, for Carly it was never about status. It was about having a place where she belonged and that belonged to her.

  The loft was home.

  “Can’t we get a place here?” As Carly said this to her mother, the cab pulled up in front of their building. Their new neighbors, a German supermodel whose face had been on the cover of Vogue a month earlier and the famous French photographer who took the picture, emerged and signaled for the driver to wait.

  Their clothes probably cost more than Carly’s mother could afford for a month’s rent. There wasn’t a unit in the building worth less than two million dollars, and the block was lined with galleries and designer clothing stores.

  Isabelle didn’t bother answering the question, and Carly didn’t bother repeating it as they passed Gudrun and Jean-François, who nodded solemnly—or was it smugly?—while holding the cab door.

  “The rental market is even worse than I thought,” Isabelle said, turning her key in the wall-mounted locking system.

  The door clicked and buzzed. Carly pushed it open.

  “I haven’t been able to find anything—anywhere in Manhattan—that we can afford with even half the space we’ll need.”

  The lobby still looked like it had when they moved in twelve years before—except for the row of locked mailboxes along the back wall. The cracks and holes in the concrete floor hadn’t been filled, and no one had even tried to remove the graffiti. Carly used to wonder about that until she decided that people who could afford to live there liked it that way. It gave them the illusion of living on the edge.

  She pushed the elevator button. Her mother leaned against the wall like she needed the support. Isabelle looked tired. More tired than usual. The circles under her eyes were showing despite the chalky-pink concealer.

  “You’ve already been looking for apartments?” Carly had to shout over the elevator’s clanking descent toward the lobby.

  “This is not a sudden decision. Believe me.”

  “But why didn’t you tell
me? Give me some inkling?”

  “I didn’t want to ruin your summer. I knew how much you were looking forward to that time with your father. I figured I’d find a place and get us all moved in while you were away.”

  The elevator landed with a thud. Carly pulled the folding metal gate open. The industrial elevator was another leftover from the veal factory. Wide enough for a rolling rack of calf carcasses, its linoleum floor was stained brown with blood and who knew what else.

  “You were just going to spring it on me when I landed at JFK? Bring me home to some strange place, not even let me pack my own stuff?”

  Isabelle leaned against the graffiti-covered wall and let out one of her trademark groan-sighs. “You know, Carly, I really haven’t thought it all through. I’m kind of going by the seat of my pants here.”

  Carly pulled the gate closed. “So what happens next?”

  “That’s the other thing I need to tell you.”

  The ride to the sixth floor was slow enough for Isabelle to tell Carly all about the “great opportunity” that had presented itself. Old friends of Isabelle’s sister, Nancy, owned a summer camp on a lake outside New Paltz. Their director had been in a rock-climbing accident the week before, and they needed someone who could step in and run the place for the summer.

  Isabelle had convinced herself that filling in as director would solve all the problems.

  “One, it gives me a place to stay for the time being, while I keep looking for an apartment. Two, I need the money. I’m going to need a security deposit and broker’s fee. And three, Jess can go to camp for free, which’ll be just what she needs this summer.”

  “Does Jess even know?”

  “Not yet. We’re waiting for the right time.”

  Before Carly had a chance to ask what her mother meant by “right time,” the elevator opened into the middle of Nick’s studio. The air was thick with the acrid smell of burning metal, and the Ramones were blasting through the room. When Nick had a deadline, he’d play old-school punk on a nonstop loop. Jess stood off to the side in kid-sized safety goggles and grease-smeared apron, watching her father weld.

  The goggles and apron used to be Carly’s.

  Carly never knew how to refer to Nick with other people. “My mother’s boyfriend” made him sound inconsequential, like someone passing through her life. Isabelle sometimes used “partner” when she talked about Nick to other people, but Carly thought that sounded ridiculous, like they were accountants or lawyers. She’d settled on not explaining and just called him her stepfather.

  Now what was she supposed to call him, her ex-stepfather? Her sister’s father? Her mother’s ex? What kind of relationship would they have after Carly moved away?

  As soon as she saw them, Jess ran over and threw her arms around her mother’s waist. Isabelle hugged Jess, leaned down to kiss the top of her head and didn’t let go until Jess’s loud but muffled “I can’t breathe!”

  Squirming out from under her mother’s arms, Jess pointed to a rusted bicycle wheel on the floor next to Nick. Various random metal things had been soldered to it: a fork, a spoon, a shiny sheriff’s badge.

  “Look at my sculpture!”

  With a weak smile Isabelle said, “Nice, honey,” and headed for the door to the living part of the loft.

  Nick didn’t turn off the blowtorch or lift his goggles. He just waved in their general direction as they walked through the studio. Isabelle made a motion with her hand that somewhat resembled a wave back.

  As they walked, Carly told her mother about her plan to work at SJNY for the summer and volunteer at the dig in Brooklyn.

  “And stay where?”

  “Can’t I stay here?”

  Isabelle shook her head.

  “Why not? Nick isn’t kicking us out, is he?”

  “No. No. I’m sure it would be fine with him. It’s just—not a good idea.” Isabelle tossed her keys into the bowl on the counter between the kitchen and dining room, then continued down the hall to her and Nick’s bedroom.

  “Why not?”

  “I need a clean break. Or as clean as possible considering we have Jess. If you stay here while I’m away, it’ll just complicate things further.” She opened her closet door, kicked off her shoes, and stepped into her slippers.

  “How? I don’t understand.”

  Groan-sigh. “Because if you’re here, and I’m there, it’ll mean that Nick and I will have to talk about you and what you’re doing and I—I’m just not up for that right now. I want to work on healing, and I won’t be able to do that if I have to talk to him all the time.”

  “Yeah, but aren’t you guys going to have to talk about Jess anyway?”

  “We’ve already worked out the summer, so not really. He’ll come up to see Jess during the parents’ weekends. I don’t need to add you to the mix.”

  “What does that mean, ‘add me to the mix’? What would you even need to talk about? I’m responsible; I can take care of myself. I totally do take care of myself now.”

  “Carly, this isn’t open for discussion. You’re not eighteen yet, and I’m not going to let you run wild around the city. I’ve seen enough of that with the girls at Bellwin. You can go to your father’s, or, if you want I can probably get you a job at Stony Hollow. Though I’m not sure what jobs are left at this late date.”

  “But—”

  “Carly. I can’t talk about this right now. Can you understand? I’m just—I’m just exhausted. And I feel a migraine coming on. I need to get in bed.”

  “What about dinner?”

  “Could you order pizza? And see that Jess gets to bed at a decent hour? Nick’s in one of those oblivious-to-time-and-responsibility states.”

  “I guess.”

  “And please make sure she has a clean uniform for tomorrow?”

  Carly let out a groan-sigh of her own. “Okay.”

  “Thanks, honey. Really. I appreciate your help. I know this is has all got to be a shock. First your father flakes on you—”

  “Mom—he’s having a baby. I wouldn’t exactly call that flaking.”

  “No. Of course not. I just mean that’s how it must feel. It’s something you’ve been looking forward to for so long.”

  Like losing the only home she’d known for the past twelve years was nothing, just an incidental change of scene.

  7

  “WHY’S EVERYBODY so crabby?” Jess was gouging a piece of spinach out of her pizza with her finger. Her paper plate was dotted with dark green blobs of oily spinach she’d extracted, one by one.

  The question hung there in the air above the worktable in Nick’s studio. Carly looked across at Nick, who looked down at his pizza. It was a veggie special from Salvatore’s. Nick and Carly’s favorite.

  The two of them became vegetarians together one boiling hot day in the summer after she and her mother moved into the loft. They were walking by a warehouse just as a truck full of carcasses was being unloaded. Even though they were headless and hoofless and cut in half, they still looked more like animals than food as they hung from those giant hooks. And they were small. It would be a few months before Carly would be able to make out the writing on the side of the truck, but the smiling creature underneath “Valenzano’s Veal” with its big black happy eyes was clearly just a baby, and no way would it be smiling if it knew what was inside the truck.

  One of the workers greeted Carly with a wink and a smile and a “Hey, sweetheart” as he hoisted one of the carcasses—a leg in each hand—onto a cart.

  It was a strange experience for Carly, who was five at the time and in love with animals. The man seemed so nice. And yet he was swinging this dead animal around like it was nothing. Like it had never been anything.

  She knew what “meatpacking” meant. She knew there were still working warehouses around. She’d been breathing in the tinny smell of blood and the stink of garbage trucks that collected the rotting discards, since moving in. But seeing that calf in that guy’s hands sent her over the edge, and
Carly declared she would never again eat an animal.

  Isabelle, concerned about protein, tried to convince Carly to keep chicken or at least fish in her diet. But not eating animals didn’t feel like a choice to Carly. Nick had been there. He’d seen how that dead calf had affected Carly, and he took her side. He said he didn’t mind cooking and eating vegetarian. It would be healthier, anyway. So from that day on, they were a mostly meatless (almost) family.

  Carly hadn’t had a chance to talk to Nick alone since her mother dropped her news bomb, but they knew each other too well. From the guilty way he was avoiding eye contact, it was clear he knew that she knew.

  When neither of them answered, Jess tried again. “Why’s everyone in a bad mood?”

  “I’m not in a bad mood,” Carly said.

  “Yes, you are. You’re not talking. Daddy’s not talking. Mama went to bed while it was still light out.”

  “Your mother has a headache, Jess,” Nick said. “And I have this show coming up. I’m sorry I’ve been distracted.”

  He looked up at Carly, like he was hoping for some help. But Carly didn’t offer any. She wasn’t going to take matters into her own hands and tell Jess herself, but she wasn’t going to pretend everything was just fine, either. She didn’t understand why Nick and her mother thought delaying the news was going to make it any easier for Jess. If anything, Carly thought, it was going to make things worse.

  When it was clear that Carly wasn’t going to help, Nick reverted to the foolproof Jess-distracting method. “So tell us about the play.”

  Jess was a budding playwright. She and her friend Rosie were hard at work on an original script for their second-grade class.

  “Well,” she said, homing in on an errant artichoke. “It’s about these girls. Actually they’re princesses who are on an adventure. They were kidnapped by these witches, but they escape and they have to find their way back to their castle before their father dies of sadness. See, his wife—their mother—died already, and now his daughters have been taken, and he’s just too sad.”