You're Not You

by Michelle Wildgen

  Jill didn’t smile. “Are you going to try another ad?” she said. I lifted a hand, let it fall. “Maybe you need to give yourself some time, you know. Get some dumb job and relax for a while. Then you can do some more caregiving and see how it goes.”

  I stared at my feet as we walked. “I don’t think I want to,” I said slowly. “I don’t think it’s an issue of waiting. I just don’t want to dive back into someone else’s life again.”

  Jill looked shocked. “It can be less involved than it was with Kate,” she said. “And you were so good at it. I really think that’s the thing for you. You’re just not ready yet.”

  I had thought so too. There had been a period, before I moved in with Kate and once I was well settled with her, when I had felt as content and calm as I ever had, and though I hadn’t articulated it, I saw now that I thought I’d found what I wanted to do, and was already doing it.

  “I was good at it,” I said. “I probably would have worked for Kate forever, but I’m not doing this anymore. I think that was my shot, and that’s it.”

  “That’s so sad.” Jill sighed. “That’s such a depressing way to think of it.”

  Maybe it was. Melancholy was a comforting, tranquil way to feel once you got used to it. But this felt to me more like being wise, like simply understanding what lay before me. I wouldn’t be a caregiver anymore, but it was true: I had been so good at it, for a while.

  IN THE STORE JILL looked around and then turned to me expectantly.

  “Well, what do we need?” she said. A sales guy approached us and she gave him a bright smile and gestured at me as if I were on top of it. “No thanks.”

  He started to turn away, but I was looking around at the walls lined with bottles, the crates filled with them, the labels incomprehensible blocks of color.

  “No, we need suggestions,” I called to the salesman. I held up two twenties and said, “I have forty dollars and I need a couple bottles of wine. Can you just steer us in the right direction, please?”

  As we walked back up to Jill’s house she got quiet. Finally she turned to me and said, “Listen, don’t get mad. But Tim invited Mark over.”

  I stopped and looked at her. “And he said yes?”

  “Of course he said yes. He liked you.”

  “I haven’t called him in like six months.” Jill opened her mouth to protest. “Whatever, four. In dating terms, that’s a lifetime. I can’t believe he said yes.”

  “I thought you guys might like talking,” she said slyly. “You know, give it a shot for once.”

  “Fuck off.” I said it automatically, because she wanted me to respond to being teased.

  She laughed, sounding pleased. Then we started walking again and she said, “I bet he doesn’t mind. Or understands, or whatever. Come on. You can have a little fun.”

  “I look like hell. I haven’t even worn makeup in months.”

  “You never wore it until Kate forced you to learn how to use it. You don’t need it anyway. You look pretty. You have wine. On more than one occasion you fucked this guy’s brains out, so I bet he has some residual fondness for you. Now come on.”

  WE HAD SPAGHETTI WITH tomato sauce and prosciutto scattered over the top, salad with fennel and blue cheese, and biscotti and blackberry ice cream. When Jill set the bowl in front of me I just sat and breathed it in for a second. It was the nicest food I’d seen in a long time. When I looked up, Mark was watching me. He smiled at me, but I was hoping he wouldn’t ask me why I was teary over pasta, and he didn’t.

  We walked out to our cars after dinner.

  “I should have called to see if you wanted a ride,” he said. “It’s stupid to drive separately when we live right near each other.”

  “You know I live there?” I said. Then I shook my head. “Of course you do. I’m sure Jill mentioned it.”

  We came to my car and I leaned back against it. “I thought maybe you’d come by sometime,” he said. I didn’t say anything. I just nodded.

  “So, you’re job hunting now, I guess?”

  “Yeah,” I agreed. “Or I’d better. Once I figure out what. I guess I could just get something to hold me over. Go back to waitressing.”

  “Oh. Well, good luck.” He stuck his hands in his pockets and glanced around. “My car’s down there.”

  I unlocked my car door and got in. He bent down, his hands on the window. “Hey,” he said. “You know you have a big hole in the dashboard?”

  I sighed and looked at the empty stereo niche. I’d stuffed all the wires back inside. The nuts and bolts and screws were in a plastic Baggie in the ashtray. “Yeah,” I said. “I’m aware of it.”

  He rocked back on his heels. “Bec,” he said. “Why don’t you just come over for a while? It’s early.”

  I looked up at him. One of the things I had come to like about him, or at least I had before, was that there was no roundness in his face. The streetlamp cast shadows beneath his cheekbones, at the corners of his mouth, alongside the straight line of his nose. I couldn’t think of any good reason to avoid him. I wanted to go to his apartment and turn off the lights and look at the fish tank.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’ll meet you there.”

  SILVIO AND ANNETTE LOOKED none the worse for wear. Mark disappeared into the kitchen. I heard the hiss of bottles being opened and then his footsteps returning as I was shaking some shrimp flakes into the water.

  “Am I overfeeding them?” I asked. I stopped sprinkling. “I’m probably ruining their feeding schedule.”

  “Oh, they’re resilient,” he said. “Maybe they’ll just get really huge, like tuna.”

  I replaced the cap and set the bottle of fish food on the table. When I turned to face him we looked at each other awkwardly. He tapped the lip of his beer bottle against mine. We drank.

  I sat down on his couch and put my feet up on the table. He seated himself on the coffee table, facing me. He set down his beer and picked up my foot, unbuckling the shoe.

  My heart sank. I didn’t know why I had bothered to come here, but I knew I didn’t have the wherewithal to soothe some guy’s ego while I explained why I had no energy to fuck him. I took my foot away.

  He looked surprised. “I’m not hitting on you,” he said. “I thought you might be more comfortable.”

  I must have looked skeptical, because he chuckled as he unbuckled my other shoe. “I know it’s been a while, but we do have a little history at this. I’d just kiss you if that’s what I meant, Bec.”

  “Oh. Okay.”

  He set my shoes on the floor and sat down on the couch next to me, and we looked at the fish tank and drank our beers without talking. He picked up my hand and held it. He turned it over to see the palm and then turned it back, stretching the fingers out. I had a round maroon scar on one knuckle, the remnant of a burn on the side of a hot pan, and a faint pink line from an old cut. They were almost healed over.

  “What are you looking for?” I asked.

  “Nothing.” He pressed his thumb at the center of my palm and rubbed it in circles, loosening up the muscle. He wrapped his hand around my wrist and made a gentle rolling motion with his fingers. His hands were warm and large, the fingers callused, nails ragged. “Give me the other one.”

  I did, turning toward him and leaning back against the arm of the couch. He pressed each knuckle lightly between his fingertips, then massaged each finger all the way out to the torn nails. He kneaded his way up my forearms and back down till they felt soft and relaxed.

  “Who taught you how to do this?”

  “Old girlfriend,” he said, concentrating.

  “What was she, a manicurist?”

  “Nope. Just touchy-feely.”

  He pushed my sleeves back and rubbed my arms in long, oval motions. I leaned farther back, stretching out my legs while he sat on the edge of the cushion. He pushed my hair away from my face and I waited for him to try to kiss me, but he didn’t. The room was dark except for the watery light from the fish tank. I watched the silv
er light slither over his neck and shoulders. I couldn’t see his face very well. I closed my eyes. It was such a comforting couch. In my mouth lingered the bitter taste of the beer I no longer felt like finishing. I caught the waxy scent of a half-burned candle on the coffee table. Mark kept rubbing my hands, gently, matter-of-factly, saying nothing. Tears pooled beneath my eyelids, then mercifully receded, but sadness rose through me like dark water filtering up through the ground. I seemed for a moment to be all liquid, warm as seawater, a rushing, tidal sound faint in my eardrums. I let him touch my hands and then rub my feet until the skin felt as though it had been roughened up, enlivened, and then he laid my hands carefully on my midriff. I heard him walk away, heard his footsteps return, and felt the light warmth of a blanket settle over me.

  twenty-three

  I WOKE UP AROUND seven the next morning. I was still on the couch, a blanket wrapped around me. I looked around, startled, trying to figure out where I was. The blanket was yellow flannel. I smelled the scent of the candle a few feet away, then saw the fish tank.

  Once I realized where I was, I didn’t feel so frantic. It was Saturday. I was wonderfully comfortable. The blanket was soft and light, just warm enough to be cozy. The sun had come up. There were a few neighborhood sounds outside too—cars going past, a squirrel skittering along a tree branch near the window. I turned over onto my side, fluffing my pillow and wondering when I’d acquired it.

  Mark was in the armchair across from me, his feet propped on the coffee table. He was still asleep, the quilt from his bed spread over him. His mouth was open, his beard shadowing his chin. His hair stuck up on one side. I watched him, the quilt rising and falling with his breath, and wondered why he hadn’t slept in his bed. Maybe he’d thought I might want it. Maybe he’d just passed out. Except there weren’t any more beer bottles than our two half-full ones, on the table.

  I got up quietly and tiptoed into the bathroom. I splashed my face, smoothed my hair, and brushed my teeth with my finger. I looked okay, though. I looked flushed, the circles beneath my eyes diminished.

  I found a notebook in a kitchen drawer and debated what to write. I didn’t want to wake him up. Finally I wrote, Good to see you. Thanks. I thought about some reference to the massage, or whatever it had been, but I didn’t know what to say about it. I didn’t even know what to call it. Finally I left the note on the table, paused, and then before I could over-think it and chicken out I added one more line. Unfortunately what came out was, Pool this week? (Billiards.)

  The first words on the lined paper looked so carefully dashed-off, and then that ridiculous billiards addendum, as if he’d think I meant a swim. He was going to tease me about this, I thought, but oh well. I realized I was smiling.

  I stood near the armchair for a second, touched an experimental fingertip to his cheekbone. I had never seen Liam sleep, not even a doze. At some point, the few guys I saw sleeping had stopped seeming boyish in repose. Mark had a heavy, slightly musky scent when I leaned near him, his beard thick as wire, the shadows beneath his eyes suggesting he had not slept as soon as he had coaxed me to. Yet I liked him better for it, the faint evidence of work and worry. I anchored the note with the candle and let myself quietly out the front door.

  The air felt wonderful, truly autumnal and crisp, the sun bright and the faint smell of wood smoke in the air. At first I began to walk toward my apartment. I was maybe five blocks away, and I was dying for a real breakfast. I didn’t even know the last time I’d had one. I had no food at home, no eggs, muffins, oatmeal, or fruit. I didn’t even have good coffee, for God’s sake. I was living like an animal.

  So I changed my mind, and headed toward the capitol. It was too lovely not to take the long way, so I walked past the lake. The farther downtown I went, the more people were out, already on their way to the market. As I walked up King Street I saw the trucks parked along the square, the throng of people—but not too crowded yet—moving in a slow stroll around the lawns. There would be pears, and apples, and the beginnings of winter greens and root vegetables. There would be shallots and beets, pastries, cheese, handmade butter.

  I decided to buy some pears. Suddenly I was craving a pear crisp. I thought I might even make one and eat it for breakfast. I could pick up some lemon and butter, oatmeal and nutmeg, on my way home.

  As I passed people I peered into their baskets. They were carrying bunches of flowers, carrots with leafy tops, fingerling potatoes still shedding dirt.

  I think I wanted to be hit by the smell of pastry and coffee, the closer I got. I had realized recently that I no longer wept whenever I was driving, and the loss felt terrible to me. For so long it had happened every time I got in my car, like water running over a too-full glass. It had been a comfort, in a way.

  I was at the entrance to the square now. I could smell the bittersweet chocolate from the croissants, the coffee and hot cider sold from carts.

  On the other side of the capitol, I remembered, there was a woman who sold tiny Seckel pears that tasted like honey. The crowd was moving past me, and I stepped into it.

  I REQUIRED AN EXPEDITION just to stock myself up on basic equipment. I had spoons, and a few cereal bowls, and of course my shallow omelet pan. I briefly wondered if I could fit a Lilliputian version of a crisp into that, like a doll’s dessert, but that didn’t seem in the spirit of the thing. I wanted to pile up fruit, press the topping down over it so it wouldn’t fall off the sides.

  I dropped off my farmers’ market purchases and went back out to a kitchen supply store for bowls and a knife and hot pads. I might have found some of this at the co-op, and it would all be hand-tooled and woven by well-treated indigenous peoples, but it would also cost four times as much. Frankly, it was time to remind myself I wasn’t living on Kate’s bank account. I wasn’t sure what my next job would be, but whatever it was, it was unlikely to pay well, so I may as well be frugal.

  I bought the basics, a big plastic bowl, a vegetable peeler, a glass baking dish, and oven mitts. Then I headed over to the knife section to eye the Wüsthofs. Their chef’s knife was a thing of beauty. Once I’d gotten a salesperson to let me handle it—its sleekness, its weighted, steady handle, its diamond point—there was no way I wasn’t buying it. I had saved some money, after all. A good cook knows where to invest.

  At home, I set my purchases on my two square feet of counter space and looked them over with satisfaction. The pears were beautiful, speckled and blushing, leaves still clinging to a few of their stems. They smelled of honey and of their own tough, herbal-scented skins. I’d gotten a block of sweet butter too, and a little bag of black walnuts. I hadn’t had them since last winter. They were expensive—Kate had told me once it was because they were murder to shell—but they tasted intensely nutty when they were roasted. On my second trip I’d gotten some oats and brown sugar for the top. I also bought—this was the one secret I recalled Kate telling me—a little bag of small-pearled tapioca. Unlike flour, it thickened the pears without making them gluey.

  I washed and dried everything, then set my ingredients and equipment out in front of me. The counter space was so tiny I had to use the top of the half-size fridge. I didn’t have a recipe, except what I recalled of making it at Kate’s direction. And there wasn’t one in my only cookbook, so I couldn’t consult that. I had always just asked her.

  I ended up doing it by guesswork and memory. I used a coffee cup to measure flour and then just dumped in oats and sugar and pinches of spice, rubbing in cubes of butter with my fingertips until the mixture felt crumbly and silky with fat. I peeled pears, sliced them off the core, and left them in big chunks. I tossed the fruit with a little tapioca and sugar and lemon zest.

  My hands were slick and sweet with pear juice and lemon and sugar. I put the dish in the oven and then looked around my apartment while it cooked. It was pretty much a mess. I walked around, followed by the fizzing sound of my carpet, picking things up and setting them in what I arbitrarily deemed the right place—I had never really settled
when I moved in. Finally I opened the blinds all the way and sat down on my couch. My apartment began to smell of pears and lemon and browning butter.

  I had looked around for Evan at the market. Though he had never come with us, back when I took Kate each week, I knew they used to go together. It was my guess that he had stopped going with her at first because it gave him time to be alone, then, later, time to be with someone. After they separated, he probably didn’t want to run into us. But I had always remembered seeing him at the little Wednesday market, buying a piece of fruit. This morning as I had strolled around trying samples of goat cheese and honey, I kept glancing about, expecting to see his thin blond hair fanned by the wind, the flash of his glasses in the sun.

  I checked on the crisp. Bubbles rose through the syrupy glaze around the fruit and the top was brown. I took it out and brought it back to the coffee table. Steam rose off the crust. I had a plate and fork and a square of paper towel for a napkin, and for a satisfying moment I thought I might eat the whole thing myself, plate after plate.

  “BEC,” EVAN SAID. HE leaned against the door frame and gazed at me. His mouth curved into a bit of a smile, a pass at one. “Come in.”

  “I brought you a crisp,” I said. “A housewarming thing, I guess.”

  “That’s sweet of you,” Evan said, taking it from me. “Still the chef. We’ll have it tonight.”

  Lisa had told me, the day I went to see her, what street he was on now. Maybe she was hoping I’d go see him too. Today I had driven slowly down the street, the crisp sitting on the passenger seat, until I saw Evan’s car in a driveway.

  I followed him into the house, looking around. It was nice enough, a little dark. I didn’t see any Kate-like touches. No bright paint, no bookcases. It was just a house.

  He led me up a couple steps and into a kitchen. There was a newspaper spread out on the table, the smell of coffee in the air. Through the window I could see Cynthia, kneeling in a garden. Her hair was shorter than I’d been imagining it. She wasn’t as slim as I recalled either, but rounded and voluptuous.