“Doesn’t this remind you of when we used to camp in your backyard with that lantern your dad made us?”
It didn’t surprise me that her thoughts shifted to my dad. It was my dad who cooked us burgers on Thursday nights as far back as I could remember and popped popcorn during Sunday evening movies. He had made Isabel almost as many gizmos as he’d made me.
“How is he?” Her voice was barely above a whisper.
“You know him . . . Behind in his billing and allowing customers to pay what they want. After Mrs. Harris paid him a chicken for rewiring her chandelier last month, I standardized some of his pricing for him. Not that he’s going to tell clients about it.”
“Mrs. Harris is rich. She should pay double.”
“But apparently she roasts an extraordinary chicken.”
“She probably wants to show off her culinary skills. Didn’t her husband die a few years ago?”
“If that’s her goal, poor Mrs. Harris.” I snuggled deeper into the pillow. “Despite enjoying the chicken, he’ll never notice her, not like that.”
“He’ll always love your mom, but he’s a relational guy. He needs people. I can see him marrying again.”
I twisted onto my back. I could just make out the ceiling’s plaster detailing in the dark. “I don’t think he’d risk it. How could he? Watching her struggle for so long . . . It was too hard.”
“No one should be alone. I don’t think we’re wired for it.” She offered nothing more. Moments later a faint “Are you happy?” drifted toward me.
“Not now. I’m feeling a little alone over here.” I answered with bravado, but it came out flat. I rushed to cover the anxiety her observation had left. “Let’s see . . . Even though Golightly is dead, I’m still employed. Fall is coming, so running is getting easier. Dad’s business, despite chickens and undercharging, is back in the black and he’s good. He seems content. And I—” I stopped as Nathan and his impending departure flashed through my mind. “I’m fine.”
“Any word from Brian?”
Brian. A nice guy Isabel set me up with months ago—a few laughs, a few dates, then silence.
I punched the pillow to soften it in the center. “I know you thought he’d call again, but he never did.”
“Did you call him? . . . Never mind, I know the answer. You were too good for him. Hopeless romantic that you are.”
I smiled into the darkness. As much as I resisted it at times, it was nice when someone understood. Isabel and I often joked about this hidden aspect of my personality. Looking at what we did, how we dressed and even spoke, one would think Isabel the romantic. Yet she was oddly pragmatic about love and relationships, almost clinical. Me, on the other hand? No one but Isabel and my dad knew, but I cried at rom-coms, adored Broadway ballads, and really did believe in true love—fairy-tale-knight-in-shining-armor love. But I suspected it only existed in actual fairy tales.
“Nathan never asked me out either, despite the rubbing stone.”
“Who? Oh . . . You mentioned him earlier. I never thought much of him.”
“He’s a good guy.” Her sharp tone stiffened my spine. “Moira said I was the one who pushed him away. Maybe it was self-protection. There are some guys who you just know if you fell for them you’d go too deep and never make it back.”
“So you don’t end up a puddle?”
“Something like that.”
Isabel turned to me. “He wasn’t all that, not how you described him. If you’d dated him, you’d have been disappointed.”
“Okay . . . And you? Other than the e-mail, are you happy?”
It was time to shift the conversation. Besides, Isabel had only asked the question so that she could answer it. At each sleepover, late in the night, she’d whisper it in the dark. Are you happy? was her litmus test to prove all was well in her world. And I’m sure tonight felt like a good time to take a measurement.
“Tonight didn’t change anything. It’s the same story, just a different chapter. But I’m getting the message. He wants me . . .” She fell silent before adding on a slow exhale, “Off and away.”
I sat up. “Don’t quote that book. Don’t think about that book.”
She had violated our fifteen-year-old rule.
“Had to. The writing is on the wall. Or in the e-mail. Get going, Isabel. Get it done, Isabel. Go. Go. Go.”
Dr. Seuss’s Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
Isabel’s dad gave her a copy for her eighth-grade graduation gift. We opened it together, we read it together, and apparently, unlike the book’s other ten-million-copies-sold recipients, we hated it together. While reading it, Isabel could hear only her dad’s voice pushing her up and out. And I could only see my life’s story spread before me on the book’s single dark page. I remember those words, that description, and the fact that it was truly the only dark page smack in the center of a razzle-dazzle rainbow-colored book.
You can get so confused that you’ll start in to race . . . Headed, I fear, toward a most useless place. The Waiting Place . . .
Mom was deep into a couple bad years at that time, and waiting was what we were doing. Scott was at college, and Dan and Curt had long since graduated—had their own lives and wives. It was Dad and Mom and me . . . And we three waited, probably Mom most of all.
Reading that book was the first day I realized I was powerless and alone. I hated that page and that feeling. It crept into me in the dark, suffocated me and terrified me. But I found I could avoid that feeling of helplessness too . . . It didn’t exist in math or even in science. Answers could be found and they were solid. You could rely on them, stand on them—no agency, luck, or grace required.
I shifted my gaze from the black ceiling to out the window. There was a yellow glow across the clouds. The moon was up there somewhere. It cast new shadows across the room. I heard Isabel tuck deeper within her covers. I did the same.
“Good night, Mary.”
“Good night, Isabel.”
Within minutes, she fell asleep. I did not.
Chapter 11
I climbed out of bed to find the moon outside the window. It hovered half in and half out of the clouds. In the charcoal gray, I could see the land slope down then rise into a hill in the distance. There was a tree line at its base. I suspected the stream flowed there—as the water would encourage the tree growth. I turned back and looked across the room.
Eleven o’clock in England was only five o’clock back home. And despite the fact that I hadn’t slept in thirty-five hours, I was still wide awake. I grabbed my Kindle from the table and tapped to Persuasion—mylast Austen novel.