“That’s fine. I have some more work to do, so I’ll be in the studio later. Join me whenever you’re ready.”
The healing atmosphere of the studio brushed over my mind, but at the moment I couldn’t contemplate being even that far away from the locked and bolted rooms of my house. When they dropped me off, I unlocked the door, slammed it behind me, and made a beeline for the kettle. I’m still shaking, but less violently. It’s turned into a fine trembling that runs below my skin, through my veins. I plant my palms against the counter and try to breathe, all the way in, all the way out, but my body remembers—a blast of something solid coming out of nowhere, slamming into the back of my head—
—A boot blasting into my left ribs—
—Yanking on my hair, pulling up up backward—
—My father’s belt making a sound as it swung through the air, the slap as it connected—
—A knee pinning me down as a razor ran over my scalp—
—A baby’s cry—
I press my fingers to my temples.
One of the things my therapist has been working on with me is my wrecked nervous system. Right now it feels shattered, maybe broken beyond repair. All these years I’ve turned the traumas of my life into bricks I could use to climb up and out, but now all those steps are crumbling and—
A bright knock lands against my kitchen window. I yelp, crossing my arms defensively as I stagger backward.
But it’s a seagull. He’s landed on the railing around the deck, and the noise is him rapping his big yellow beak against the glass.
He’s a big bird. A factoid I know from Phoebe, the bird fanatic, is that some of the largest seagulls in the world live around here. This one is bright white with black wing feathers and banded stripes on his tail. He’s fully two feet tall, and when he cocks his head sideways, looking at me, some of the wild terror in my body eases. “Hello. Has someone been feeding you?”
He taps his beak against the window again, as if he’s answering me, and it surprises a laugh from me. “You’re used to getting your way, aren’t you?” Phoebe would kill me if I fed him, but I’m sorely tempted. I mean, I perform for my supper. Why can’t seagulls?
But I don’t feed him. Phoebe has impressed upon me the importance of letting wild animals be wild. Instead, I brew my tea and watch the waves, trying to anchor myself in their rhythmic movements. A low bank of clouds rolls in, heavy and purple, and beneath them the sea starts to toss. I wonder what storm is out there on the feral ocean, and something in me eases as I think of it, the water and the beings beneath it, and the clouds and the rain. A hardness in my chest slips away. The gull sits with me, just on the other side of the glass, until rain starts pattering against the window and his feathers. As if it annoys him, he flaps his big wings and flies down to join his cronies at the shoreline, where the rough surf has left a thick row of debris. Good eating for birds.
My phone rings with a number I don’t recognize, but it’s a local area code. I pick it up and cautiously say, “Hello?”
“Hello, ma’am,” says a woman. “This is Blue River Electric. We had a cancellation and can fit you in today if you want us to take a look at that breaker box.”
“Oh!” Ben must have called them already. Since the alarm system is connected to that box, I’m grateful. “Yes, please. When?”
“Like now-ish? He can be there in about ten minutes, if that’s okay.”
My immediate reaction is to put it off, but why? It needs to get done, and what else am I doing? “Okay. That’s great.”
“He’ll be right there.”
I hang up and call Phoebe. “The electrician is already on the way. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. I thought it would be better to get it taken care of. We probably don’t want that house to burn down.”
“No, that would be sad.”
“Jasmine and I are taking our rest, but we’ll go down to the studio after. See you there, okay?”
“Yes. Thanks, Phoebe.” I almost add, “I don’t deserve you,” but she’d just agree.
Before I’ve fully hung up, the doorbell rings. Smoothing my hair, which is a fool’s errand since I know I’m a mess, I call out, “Coming!” and open the door.
A man stands on the porch, sheltered from the rain. His long, salt-and-pepper hair is pulled back into a braid. His brows are heavier than I remember, and the jawline is going a little soft, but he’s still himself, tall and lean, wearing jeans and a good jacket.
All the air leaves my lungs and I stare at him for a long moment. A million memories roll through me, glazed with grief and incandescent love and a longing so sharp and pure that I feel it still in the depths of my gut. “Joel,” I say in an airless voice.
His expression is unreadable, but he stares right back at me. In my peripheral vision, I see his hand clench. “Suze,” he says.
It’s madness, because I haven’t seen him since we were fifteen years old, but there’s no resisting it—I step forward and hug him. Hard. It’s completely impulsive and probably really weird considering how many decades it’s been since I’ve seen him, but his arms come around me, too, tight, and we press together in wordless memory, things too hard to speak, things too big. Into his neck, which smells exactly the same, of rain and earth and hope, I say fervently, “It is so good to see you.”
He stands there, quiet, hugging me back. Our bodies are tight together, as if it were just the other day we did this, instead of years and years and years. Enough years to fill a whole life.
And it doesn’t matter. He feels right. He says, “Jesus, you smell exactly the same.”
It goes on a long time, until I feel like I might dissolve entirely.
“Sorry,” I whisper, but I can’t quite let go. So many things rise through my body, dark and bright, side by side. My shaved head. His fury. The endless days we spent here and in his mother’s house when she was at work. The days I spent wondering why he deserted me. Learning he’d been sent away.
The baby. That little girl I was forced to give away.
Something deep within cracks open.
So intense. So long ago.
I’m embarrassed to realize there are tears leaking out of my eyes, and I force myself to step back. He reaches out and is about to brush them away, but I step back at the same instant, mortified. “Come inside.”
His face is entirely expressionless as he follows my lead. I can’t help wondering if Phoebe knew he would be the one to show up.
THEN
I DON’T KNOW HOW TO LOVE HIM
Monday, Thanksgiving Week
Dear Suze,
I got your letter last night. I’m so PISSED OFF at your dad, and I wish I could help you somehow, but my grandmother said there’s nothing we can really do. So I’m writing every day.
Joel and I walked on the beach last night and talked about A WRINKLE IN TIME. He’s a really nice person and I am glad he’s your friend. I invited him over to do some art in Amma’s studio today and it was really fun. He’s a good artist! He drew a picture of you and both of us miss you so much.
Truth-I do like him, like him, and I think he likes me, too. He asked for my phone number and I thought it was probably okay since I asked you if he was your boyfriend but you said no way, that he was just your friend. I wish we could talk about this on the phone or face-to-face because I don’t want to get it wrong.
But now that you’re on restriction, there’s nothing to do. I feel so lonely without you.
I drew some comics for you. Suze and Phoebe go to NYC.
Love,
Phoebe
Phoebe
Joel came over for dinner with me and Amma. I could tell she liked him. She leaned in to listen when he talked, and filled up his plate three times. Unobtrusively, asking questions to keep him chatting.