by Julia Hoban
“Will you do something for me?” she whispers against his mouth. She is trembling slightly, both from excitement and fear, and she cannot yet bring herself to believe that her act will not have consequences.
“Yes,” he whispers back. “Just tell me what.”
“Take me home.”
Willow has no idea why she has requested this, where this desire has come from, if it has been building for a long time or if it is a sudden need. But she is sure that it is genuine, she is sure that it is what she wants.
“Now?” Guy pulls away from her. “You mean you want me to walk you back to your brother’s apartment?”
“No.” Willow shakes her head. “I want to go home. Back to my parents’ house, where I grew up. Home.”
“Oh.” Guy nods. He looks confused, but thoughtful. “It’s not far, is it? I mean, you could borrow your brother’s car and drive out there, couldn’t you?” He stops for a second. “Sorry. Have you driven since . . . I wasn’t thinking.”
“No, I haven’t. I can’t go there by myself and I can’t borrow my brother’s car. He’ll want to know what for and I can’t tell him. I need you to take me, Guy. Please.”
“Why do you want to go home? Is it, is it because maybe you’re afraid that now your home has become a place you can only visit in your imagination?”
“No, I don’t think that’s it . . .” She trails off.
Willow wishes that she could answer him. That she herself knew the answer. She thinks about the two times she’s been home since the accident, the time with David and the bookcases, and the time that she gathered her clothes. There is no reason to think that going home now will be any different. Willow has no idea what she is looking for, what she hopes to get out of such an excursion. And why does she think that if her brother, her unbelievablystrong brother, has been unable to withstand the emotional impact of being in their parents’ house, that shewill be able to?
Maybe she just needs to drive along the road where it all happened again. Maybe she needs to bury her head in her mother’s closet and see if she can still smell her. Maybe she needs to look at those bookcases again.
“I want a book,” Willow blurts out finally. She supposes that this answer makes as much sense as any other. “Bulfinch’s Mythology. I want my father’s copy.”
Guy nods slowly, as if this makes perfect sense. He doesn’t say, as someone else might, that she can walk into almost any bookstore and buy a copy, he doesn’t say that he knows that she already owns a copy, that he’s seen her with it any number of times, or that he can lend her his own. Instead he just turns to her and says: “Okay then, looks like I’m the one who’s going to have to find a car to borrow.”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Of course it would be raining.
Willow stares listlessly out of the window, but there’s really nothing to see. Nothing, that is, except the driving sheets of rain, the futile back and forth of the windshield wipers, and the occasional flash of lightning.
Even though the weather report had promised nothing but blue skies, even though the past few days have been perfect fall weather, Willow had known that the second she got in the car with Guy it would start to pour.
She wonders if Guy’s nervous, if he’s worried about driving in such nasty weather—the only time the rain had let up was when it had started to hail. Or maybe he’s worried that she’s worried, worried that she’ll be in an accident. Anotheraccident.
Willow isn’t concerned about anything like that,but she feels distinctly uncomfortable. There’s just something unsettling about so much rain.
“We turn here, right?”
Willow doesn’t respond. She’s staring out the window, straining to see beyond the rain-streaked glass. It’s useless, of course—she can barely make out the road—but it’s also unnecessary. She doesn’t need to see. She would know where she was even if she were blindfolded.
“Hey, aren’t I supposed to make a turn here?”
“Stop.”
“What?”
“Stop the car.”
Guy pulls the car over to the side of the road, next to a wide-open field. “Are you okay? Are you going to be—”
Willow doesn’t wait for him to finish, she opens the door and hesitates for only an instant before plunging into the driving rain.
She isn’t dressed for this kind of weather—within seconds she’s soaked through to the bone, but she hardly notices as she stumbles across the field. There, maybe five or six yards from the road, is an enormous old oak.
“What are you doing?” Guy calls after her. He gets out of the car and walks through the rain to where Willow is standing in front of the tree.
“Willow,” he has to shout to be heard over the thunder. “Come on, get back in the car.” He takes her arm.
Willow looks at him without seeing. She reaches out her hand and touches the side of the tree, touches a huge section that has its bark sheared clean off, leaving in its stead a smear of midnight blue paint.
Odd that after all these months, after all this rain, the paint would still be there.
She sinks on her knees before the tree. The crackle of cellophane makes her look down and it takes her a second to realize that she is kneeling on the remnants of dozens of floral offerings, now turned into compost, unrecognizable except for their soiled ribbons and plastic wrappings.
The scene should be affecting, disturbing, shatteringeven, and yet Willow feels nothing so much as uncomfortable as the rain sinks through her clothes and drenches her skin. She is unmoved, the drama of the weather, the import of the place, they have no power over her. She doesn’t know what she was expecting, what she was looking for, but it certainly wasn’t this, this emptiness, this meaninglessness.
Guy appears to be much more affected than she is. His face is white as the meaning of the sheared bark, the traces of paint, and the rotten floral tributes sinks in.
“Let’s go.” She stands up. “C’mon.” Willow takes his arm. His clothes are soaked too. “Let’s get out of here.” She pulls him back to the car.
Guy gets in and slams the door, gives her a searching look, but doesn’t say anything beyond: “About a mile and a half, right?”
“That’s right. Take the next left and then it’s just straight on from there.”
Neither of them says anything else for the rest of the trip. Willow hopes that Guy doesn’t feel as cold and uncomfortable as she does.
“Is this it?”
“Um-hum. That’s right. It’s that mailbox up ahead.”
Guy turns into the driveway and turns off the engine. She’s home. After all these months, she’s home.
Willow gets out of the car, slowly, gingerly, as if she’s suddenly become old and infirm. She’s transfixed, staring at the house, no longer noticing the rain as it drips unchecked down her face and plasters her already sodden clothes against her skin.
“Maybe we should go inside?” Guy suggests tentatively.
“Oh, yes.” Willow stares at him without really seeing him. “We should go inside.”
She starts forward, but trips on the gravel. “You sure this is okay?” Guy catches her arm. “You sure you want to do this?”
“Maybe . . . Maybe . . . I don’t know.” Willow shakes her head—she’s notsure all of a sudden. “Maybe we could go somewhere and . . . um, I don’t know . . . have lunch first?” she says finally. Willow knows the suggestion is idiotic. It’s just past ten in the morning, they’re both soaking wet, the house, while daunting, at least offers the possibilityof comfort. They would certainly be able to dry off and change inside. Almost all of her clothes are still there, and she’s sure that she could find something for Guy as well.
“Whatever you say. It’s completely up to you.”
“You’re so . . . You’re too . . .” Willow trails off.
Perfect, wonderful, heavenly. . . .
“I’m too what?”
“Nice,” Willow says finally. The word is completely inadequate. “You�
��re too nice.”
“Well, I’m not exactly going to drag you in there. Look, whatever you want to do, it’s your call. Totally. But maybe you could decide soon. This rain is really starting to get to me.”
“Let’s get back in the car.” She walks to the passenger side.
“Now what?” Guy turns to look at her as he gets in and turns the key in the ignition. “You really want to go and get lunch?”
“At least it’s dry in here.” Willow doesn’t answer him directly. “Whose car is this anyway?”
“Adrian’s brother’s.”
“Did you tell him what it was for?’
“Nope. And he didn’t ask.”
“Oh.” Willow nods. “Listen, what I said out there . . .” She drums her fingers on the dashboard. “It’s true. . . .”
“What?”
“That you’re too . . . You’re so . . .” To Willow’s astonishment her voice breaks. She is shocked that Guy’s kindness has the power to move her so much. How strange that he can affect her like this when the scene of the accident left her cold.
“Willow?”
“Yes?” Her voice is steadier and she is once again in control.
“You are too.”
“Oh.” She puts her elbows on the dashboard and rests her forehead against her palms. “If you say so.”
“Are you crying?” Guy touches her shoulder.
“No.” Willow lifts her head up. “You should know by now, I don’t cry. Look, let’s go and get lunch, okay? I know it’s really early, but let’s just go. There’s this place everyone at my school used to hang out at. It’s only about two miles from here.” She glances at the clock. “It will be completely empty now.”
“Okay.” Guy backs the car out of the driveway. “I guess I could use something hot. Do they have good coffee?”
“Hot chocolate.”
“Huh?”
“Hot chocolate. It’s this little place run by this couple from France, and that’s what they do best. Or at least it’s what everyone from school used to order. But you can get the half espresso, half chocolate. You’ll like it, I promise.”
“Keep going straight?”
“No, make a right, and then another right. You’ll see it after that.”
“Is this it?” Guy pulls up outside the cafe. It’s nestled among a row of shops that form one side of a semicircle set around a statue of a Revolutionary War hero. “My clothes are sticking to me,” he says as he gets out of the car.
“I’m sorry.” Willow can’t help feeling guilty. “Mine are too. Maybe we’ll dry off a little inside.”
The cafe is as empty as she had hoped. They have the whole place to themselves, and Willow picks her old favorite spot, a booth near the window.
“Is it too early to get dessert?” Guy asks, looking at the menu.
“Go ahead.” Willow shifts uncomfortably against the banquette. Her wet jeans are making her miserable. “I know what you want, that mocha cream thing, I can’t even pronounce it. You should definitely get it.”
“Is there a waitress around here?”
“You have to go to the counter to order.”
“And you just want hot chocolate?”
“Umm, yeah, because—”
“Willow?!”
“Markie?!” Willow is so stunned that she can hardly speak. She half stands up as she stares at what must surely be a ghost, because she can’t quite believe that what she’s seeing is real. After all these months, after all the phone calls she’s avoided, she’s finally face-to-face with her best friend.
“What are you doing here?” she asks as Markie walks over to the table. “I mean, why aren’t you in class?”
“What am I doing here? I live here. How about what are youdoing here?” She looks at Willow in disbelief as if she too can’t believe that what she’s seeing is real.
“You cut your hair,” Willow says stupidly.
“Yeah, about a foot. . . .” Markie pauses; she looks back and forth between Willow and Guy.
“Oh, uh, sorry, this is Guy, and I guess that you’ve figured out by now that this is Markie.”
“I’ve heard about you,” Guy says, clearly more comfortable with the situation than they are.
Willow is surprised by the remark. It’s such a cocktail party kind of comment, but she is grateful to Guy for saying it. She can see now, as she looks at Markie, that she has hurt her old friend. Willow hopes that Guy’s words will at least show Markie that she has not forgotten her, that she has thought about her and talked about her over the past eight months, that all the things that they have done together over the years still matter to her.
“Hi.” Markie nods at him. “So what are you doing here?” She shifts her attention back to Willow.
“I . . . had to pick up something at the house,” Willow answers after a second. It’s the only thing she can think to say, and in fact, picking up the Bulfinchis really the only concrete reason she has for being back home. “So what are you doing here in the middle of the day?” She turns the question back to Markie.
“Oh, I’m getting some stuff for my mom.” Markie shrugs. “She’s having a dinner party. There was a water main break in school. The whole place flooded. We have the next two days off while they clean up.” She speaks in short staccato bursts.
“That makes sense, I guess. . . .” Willow tries to smile, but it comes out all wrong.
“I’ll go give them our order.” Guy stands up and looks at Willow. Clearly he is waiting to see if she will ask Markie to join them.
“I have to hurry back,” Markie says. The words come out in a rush—it’s obvious that she doesn’t want to give Willow the chance to reject her yet again. But as soon as Guy leaves, she slides into the banquette. She stares at Willow, but neither of them speaks, and the silence between them is not the comfortable silence of two friends.
“I like your hair that way,” Willow finally says.
“Thanks.” Markie doesn’t seem particularly flattered. She looks at Willow closely. “I haven’t seen you with your hair in a braid since you were about six years old. I remember your mom used to do it for you.”
Is that true?
Willow had completely forgotten about that, but now an image comes back to her. She remembers squirming on a footstool, desperate to go out and play with Markie, while her mother sat behind her with a brush.
She blinks to clear away the vision, bringing her focus back to the present. “So is your hair easier to deal with now it’s so much shorter? I mean, it used to take you forever to blow it dry. . . .” Willow can’t believe that this is all she can say to her friend after so many months, that their relationship has been reduced to this kind of small talk, and she knows that it’s all her fault.
But Markie’s having none of it. Now that the two of them are alone, she gets right to the point. “My mom said that the reason you never called back or e-mailed me or anything, is just that things are so hard for you right now. . . .”
“She’s right,” Willow begins eagerly, glad to have the chance to explain. She leans across the table. “You see—”
“But I said that was impossible,” Markie cuts her off. “Because I told her if that were the case, then you would just say something to me, like ‘Hey Markie, I can’t deal with you right now, the second I’m ready, you’re first . . . ’ I told her that you wouldn’t just ignoreme, that you weren’t like that. You wouldn’t be so . . . dishonest. Emotionallydishonest, I mean.”
Willow pulls back in shock. “I’m . . . I’m reallysorry,” she stammers. She feels as if she’s been slapped, but she can’t be mad at Markie, because she knows that her friend is right. “I should never have . . .”
“I hate saying stuff like this to you!” Markie bursts out. “I don’t want to be talking to you like this! I feel like you’re my ex or something and I’m begging you to call me! And I feel so selfish too! I should be asking you how you’ve been holding up, not getting mad at you.” She pauses. “So, how have you
been holding up?” she says after a moment.
“Not always so great.”
Talk about an understatement!
Willow wonders what would happen if she showed Markie her arms. Would she forgive her for not calling? Would she understand what her life has become?
Would she tell her mother? Of courseshe would. She wouldn’t even think twice. She wouldn’t be like Guy. Markie has known her whole family since they were both five. She wouldn’t listen to Willow’s protests. She would tell her mother. Her mother would tell David. Her razors would be taken away. Somethingwould be done. That part of her life would be over.
Willow is not yet ready for that to happen, but for the briefest instant she is overcome by an urge so powerful that she literally has to restrain herself from flinging her arms out at Markie. All she would have to do is roll up her sleeves and the thing would be set in motion. . . .
Instead she jerks her hands off the table. Puts them in her lap. Starts twisting her napkin, does anything to keep them occupied.
“I . . . I miss you,” she finally says, her eyes firmly fixed on her napkin. “I miss you and I miss the way things used to be between us. And even though your mother was right . . . you were too.” Willow looks up at Markie. “I should have just let you know that I couldn’t talk to you.” Once again, to her amazement, she feels her voice start to break. But as before, the moment passes quickly.
“What about now?” Markie asks.
“I’ll . . . I willcall you,” Willow says. “I’d like to see you.”
“Really?” Markie looks skeptical.
“Really,” Willow assures her. “But listen . . .” She blushes as she thinks of Markie’s earlier reprimand. This time she’s determined to be straight with her. “I don’t think that it’s going to be anytime soon.”
“Oh,” Markie says slowly. “Well, I guess I’ll just have to wait then. I . . . Well, I really hope that it’s not going to be another seven months or anything. And Willow . . .” She gives her a funny little half smile. “I did kind of buy what my mom was saying. If I hadn’t, I wouldn’t have kept calling you all these months.”
