Parts Unknown (31 page)

“You’re turning something beautiful into something hateful. Don’t do it,” he warned.

 “You love the Vivian I was. Or the Vivian you thought I was,” I scoffed. “You don’t love the person I am now. You just want to remember the way things were, and the way I made you feel once upon a time. You don’t even need to be with me, anyway. You already got what you wanted from me.”

He didn’t say anything, and in his silence I heard the truth.

“So it’s goodbye again, then.” My voice sounded so harsh, strident. Not the way I wanted to say goodbye at all.

“Goodbye,” he said softly.

“I love you,” I mouthed, silent, to the dial tone.

The final marble dropped. Slipped through my fingers, clattering down that endless chasm.

Oh, god. Josh—never to see him again, his words like drops of cold water against my skin on a hot day, his slowly curving smile, his hands caressing my hair, pulling me close.

My mind flashed back to that magical day in Hampstead. I could be there forever, in that moment. Lying on the ground, fallen twigs digging into my back, staring up into Josh’s eyes, the dazzling sunlight piercing the branches, washing everything with the golden light of memory, of fantasy.

In a daze, I drove to Ralphs to do the week’s shopping. The more little errands I ran, the faster the lonely, endless morning might go by. The whole time, I thought of Josh, a constant pain in my chest like I’d been stabbed. He didn’t want me, but that didn’t stop me from wanting him again, desperately, aching to be back living those perfect summer days once more.

Time pleated back on itself, repeating endlessly: the same moments, the same decisions. Here I was in stop motion, wandering helplessly down road after road, no signposts pointing the way. Feeling my way as if blind, hoping each path was the right one. Always wishing to be someplace I wasn’t.

I tossed things I didn’t need into the cart, not remembering what we had at home, buying a couple of everything, just in case. What was I forgetting? I was forgetting I was late, that’s what. By a week. But it didn’t matter, now. He didn’t want me, he just wanted the idea, the ideal of me. Funny—just like George.

Josh was gone for good, and my stupid trick wouldn’t make him wish to stay with me any more than he wanted to in the first place. Another person, to add to my family. One more for the small tribe of me and Lucy. And maybe Mom and Dad again. I could add Marty to the little tribe. I could add Alex too. No matter where we were, we could be together, thin strings binding us, skinny as the dental floss I’d tossed in my cart, but it would have to be enough.

I walked down the “Feminine Products” aisle, my fingers lingering near the pregnancy tests. I pulled my hand away. Let that wait, just for a while. Let it be a mystery answered another day.

Standing in the Ralphs checkout line, I was still stuck in that unresolved moment under that tree in Hampstead, the start and end of everything. At last, wheeling my cart down the outdoor moving ramp, I pursed my lips and blew, letting the memories scatter before me like dandelion silk. They caught on a breeze, blew crazily in all directions, but far away from me. I let him go, as he let me go. There was room, now, for the real family to blossom.

I knew what I had to do.

The only path that was clear, and that made any sense, was the one I walked along with Lucy. Holding her hand, buttressing her against the harsh winds that blew from either end. Together, until the day came when I could release her, let her roam free in the world, following her own road.

After everything, I almost wished George could still be walking with us, so that he could protect us in that hard, cold world. He had been so good at keeping me safe. But now that I knew what kind of love I deserved, I couldn’t squeeze myself back into the box George put me in. The hard part was gathering the courage I needed to see it through.

George had been sleeping on the couch all week. Ever the gentleman, after all I’d done, he let me have the bed. And yet, traitorously, that night I reverted to an old comforting fantasy. An easy way out. A phone call in the early evening. A somber policeman on the line. “Ma’am, I have some bad news.” George, in a disastrous freeway pileup. Dead, instantly. I imagined myself sobbing, twisting the phone cord around my finger, while inside, I was ecstatic. It was an accident. It was no one’s fault. And I was free, finally free.

~ ~ ~

I spent the week closing things down. Withdrawing Lucy from preschool. Saying goodbye to Astrid. Returning all the books to the library, and not taking out any new ones. I carefully unraveled the few threads that held me to Los Angeles, until I could think of nothing more tying me there. The only things I still needed, I’d be bringing with me. And so the following Sunday, I reminded George that the next morning, Lucy and I would be leaving for San Jose. He turned, busying himself with straightening an orchid’s leaves, and said, “Call me when you arrive, okay? I want to make sure that Lucy got there safe and sound.” He rubbed his eyes.

“Of course I will. Will you come visit, maybe, next weekend? I know Lucy will miss you tons, even though Mom will be busy spoiling her all week.”

“Yes. I’ll see what I can find on Southwest. And I’ll bid on a room on Priceline.”

“See you then.”

“Do you think—” he started.

“No,” I said firmly. “No, I don’t think so. I need to go. You know,” I added, “I’ve finally got a plan. And I feel pretty good about it. It’s the plan I should have made, a long time ago.”

“Everyone needs a plan,” said George. “Do you want to tell me what it is?”

“
Incineration
,” I said. “For once, I’m going to finish something I started.”

Monday morning, George made waffles. “But it’s not Tuesday,” I exclaimed, surprised. “Just this once,” said George, ruffling Lucy’s hair. “Are you excited to see Grandma and Grandpa?” he asked her. I looked down at my waffle, steaming and brown. Would he really let us go, that easily? Waffles on Monday—there was always a price to pay, for change.

“Gamma says she has two presents for me! And that one of them’s pink!” said Lucy.

“Well, that’s great. You’ll have a lot of fun,” said George; then, “I’ll see you next weekend, okay? That’s seven days. Can you count to seven?”

Lucy wiggled her fingers doubtfully.

“I tell you something even better. I’ll call you every night, sweetie. So all you have to do is count to one. For one night.” He held up one finger. “Every night. A phone call just for you, you lucky girl.” Lucy nodded and held up one finger, so she would remember.

Meanwhile, I ate two waffles, thinking hard, tilting them so the syrup distributed itself equally among the holes.

I cleaned up the dishes while George read Lucy five of her favorite books in succession, then squeezed her in a big hug. He kissed my cheek, and I pulled back to stroke his face gently, remembering its angular contours. I’d never painted George, but I could see how I could do it, with rich browns. Yellow ochre for an undertone, mixed with some transparent red oxide to brighten it up, and then the siennas: burnt sienna, raw sienna over the cheekbones and the sides of the nose. Burnt umber for the shadow on his upper lip. The colors fading back to his light, light hair and then blurring at the edges, George in motion, waiting for his next plan to take shape.

“Good-bye,” I said, and he rushed out the door, late, clutching his briefcase. I breathed in deeply, wondering how long it would take him to form that next plan, the one in which he would sweep in and take Lucy away from me. Demand sole custody. Wonder why he had let us go, and go so far away.

Shivering, I sent Alex an email:

Leaving for home. I’ll be at Mom and Dad’s for a while, with Lucy. Kind of indefinitely, actually. It would be nice to see you, if you’re traveling near the Bay area. If you have time. But you know: I understand. And we can always email and IM if you can’t come.

I parked Lucy in front of the television and rummaged through suitcases piled precariously in the hall closet. That battered olive green duffel peeked out from behind the sturdy Hartman luggage Madame gave us as a wedding gift.

I began to pack, realizing that, no matter the uncertainties to come, for the moment, I was free. And I suddenly felt so deliriously happy I was almost verging on hysteria, tossing in clothes, helter-skelter—some underwear for me, ruffled dresses and DVDs for Lucy, and her favorite stuffed monkey. Oh—I almost forgot!—never travel without anti-perspirant and pajamas. Silly me. I upturned drawers, whirling madly, hurling in more unnecessary items than the duffel was capable of holding. I couldn’t stop smiling.

Did I have everything? No—wait. Of course. A sketch pad, and three pencils: 2H, HB, and 2B. Those are the only pencils you need to create the perfect degrees of shading, the angle of sunlight striking a face, a body in repose.

Then I positioned the tackle box containing all my paints and brushes next to the duffel, by the front door.

Imagining him silent in that empty apartment, pondering statistical probability. Tending his orchids. Dinner every Sunday night with Madame, hers alone, again.

And me—alone too, at last. Finally ready to begin.

I gazed around the apartment one last time. Letting the memories flap uselessly against the walls. In the bedroom doorway, ghostly twin shadows, Josh and George, futile grasping hands reaching toward me.

I strode past that door decisively, and checked my email once more before turning off the computer. There was one new message, from Alex.

I’ll be there.

I made one last tour of the apartment, stopping at that framed map above the fireplace. I reached out and lightly touched the glass with my fingers, tracing my route northwards.

“Ready, Lucy?” I called.

“Let’s go.”

Chapter 18

We drive north on Interstate 5, which cuts a straight, brutal swathe through the Central Valley, bookended by treacherous, winding hills on either end of the drive. Lucy is already restless before we even get over the Tejon Pass that carries us out of Southern California. I toss toys and coloring books in the back seat to amuse her; I have her favorite “Songs from the Farm” CD on endless repeat. But “When are we
getting
there?” becomes her constant, irritating refrain as she flings each offering contemptuously to the side, never satisfied. Finally she falls asleep, and I gun the engine, straining to 90 miles an hour so we can get there faster, not sure why I’m in such a hurry. Meanwhile, hordes of suicidal gnats hurl themselves at my windshield, splattering it in gore. I remember too late to press the inside-air-circulation button around Coalinga, and the horrible stench of the stockyards fills the car. I try my hardest not to look to my right, at the jam-packed, desperate cattle stretching east as far as the eye can see.

Lucy is still asleep, and I press hard on the accelerator, flying down that road that offers no certainties, in any possible direction. Even in April, the scrub brush is brown and dry. Empty hills rise to the left. Wind whips the car. Then all of a sudden, once I exit I-5 onto the Pacheco Pass route, I’m in the Bay area. As if by magic, the desolate Central Valley plains give way to verdant mountains and fields dotted with bright yellow mustard flowers. Clumps of orange poppies wave—flags, welcoming me home. Maybe I can clutch them like a flimsy shield, to absorb memories, failures, lifelong detours.

I sag in my seat, loose-limbed. It doesn’t matter where we end up; my world is contained fully inside this car. Me, Lucy, that duffel, my art supplies, and the question mark in my belly.

~ ~ ~

Back in that narrow Victorian house, the glow-in-the-dark stars are still stuck to the ceiling in my childhood room. Damp canvases in acrylic and oil rest against the wall, turpentine stinging my nose—the sharp smell of regret, and of success. I’ve finished the
Incineration
series, at last.

When I go to sleep at night, I wrap myself in memories of long ago. Light sluicing off the children’s heads as they whirl around the fountain. The moment when present collided with future, when I could have chosen differently.

In my dream, I shake his hand.

Get up.

And walk away.

Acknowledgements

I owe many thanks:

To my amazing reviewers: Benjamin Davidson, Nathan Davidson, Grace Lynch, and Laura Pina. Your incisive suggestions made this a much better book. I couldn’t have done it without you. Special thanks also to Benjamin for showing me that map, and to Nathan for his constant support.

To my high-school English teacher, Dr. Daniel Victor, who believed in my writing.

To my talented cover designer, Andrew Brown of Design for Writers.

Most of all, to Karl and Rachel, the lights of my life.