Where You End (17 page)

thirty-six

This is how the truth comes out. In traffic, at night, in her Barnard sweatshirt, in a car I can't even drive. She takes one trembling hand off the wheel and looks for mine, and then she holds it tight so the sweat won't let it slip, and I cry. I cry so hard my head hurts for the next three days, so hard I have to blow my nose in the sleeve of my favorite shirt, so hard the lights blur into a mess of white and blue and red and green, and I let them. I don't force my eyes to focus, like I would the camera.

My mother does not say a word. She just squeezes my hand tighter every time I sob, making every effort not to stop me or talk me out of it, knowing that if she opens her mouth, she might run us into the World War II Memorial. We pass the monuments on the Mall, and she finally turns into the parking lot next to the Albert Einstein statue. She lets my hand go, gets out, and waits for me on the sidewalk.
When I peek through the bushes, I see the genius is still
smiling. I used to climb on his bronze pants, step on his bronze papers, pet his bronze mustache. When I learned to read, I would trace the letters carved on the granite bench. This is what they say:
“The right to search for truth implies also a duty; one must not conceal any part of what one has recognized to be true.”

Perhaps that's right, but truth is a motherfucker sometimes, selective and cruel. We walk to the stoplight and wait for the crossing man to turn green. It's chilly out. The air bites where the tears have dried, on my neck and cheeks. My nose must be enormous. It always swells after I cry. The cold has scared most other people back into their hotels. Tomorrow is Halloween.

I struggle to keep up with my mom, and wonder if I should grab her hand again, or if she wants to be alone, if she even wants me here. We walk under the trees toward a bright yellow light, until we've crossed the concrete barricades and are facing the Lincoln Memorial. There's no moon in the reflecting pool.

We walk all the way up to the top, where Lincoln sits like a wise giant in his temple. My dad would kill us if he knew we came here without him. As my mom reads (or pretends to read) the inaugural address, I lean on a yellow column. I am only a mortal. My mother is neither sad nor pissed. She's lost, and she's looking for strength in a man made of marble. When I've had enough of the tension, I walk down the stairs, letting all my weight fall with every step, hoping it will startle me into something real. You have a dream. I have a dream too, an impossible one.

This moment is beautiful, even if it's scary, even if it's sad. It's our détente. I know it will all be spoiled, that it will be real by sunrise. I will have to look my mother in the face, and she will have to say something uglier than the Gettysburg Address. Her words will not fix anything. It will have to be something about what comes next.

When I get to the bottom of the steps, a couple asks me to take their picture, and I'm too tired to say no. One, two, three and take a picture of their two matching grins. They're having a good time. I have to give Adam his camera. I have to get Bogart back from Eva. I'm going to have to explain everything.

When we get back in the car, my mother turns on the heat and says: “You are telling your father.”

I nod and swallow. My angry-girl mask dropped as soon as I told her the news. Someone has to tell him, so I will.

Back in the city (ours, not hers), when we cross the Buffalo Bridge over Rock Creek, I tell her I'm sorry, and she tells me I don't need to apologize; we just need to deal with it.
We.
I let the plural go, since I'm too exhausted to fight. I feel like I've run a hundred marathons but never once crossed the finish line. Like I can't get to the end. It's past nine thirty, and although we're both tired and my mother might appreciate some time to herself, it seems wrong for me to fall asleep right now. Tonight, she will cry when I close my bedroom door. She has not cried yet. My eyes are losing focus.

“Maybe she just didn't want to go to California,” I say, super drowsy.

“Who?”

“Ari. Maybe she just didn't want to leave New York.”

“Yes,” my mother says. “Maybe.”

“Or maybe she didn't want to be with him.”

“I doubt that.”

My mom gives me a sideways glance, her eyes puffy and tired, her hands gripping the wheel to make it home.

“Do you think she's happy?” I ask.

“I think she's fine.”

“Fine?”

“Fine. Good. Great. She has a good life, beautiful kids, funny friends, a husband who says yes most of the time.”

The leather squeaks under my sinking body.

“You think she should've gone.”

“I think she should've been a dancer. She was a wonderful dancer, one of the best I've ever seen.”

“You smell terrible, Ma. You shouldn't smoke.”

“I know.”

When we get home, I'm asleep and it's my father who comes back to the car to wake me up. He can't carry me anymore, but he keeps his hand on my back as we walk to the door. Inside, across the hall, he's strung the prints of the night pictures, with pins, on an old clothesline. It's overwhelming. Sometimes he's so far away and in his head, and then he just comes close, or notices something, or pays attention, and it always overwhelms me.

“Thanks Dad.”

“Sure. They're pretty. I don't know when the hell … ”

“I just need to go to sleep.”

“We'll talk tomorrow?”

“Yes.”

“Good night, bean.”

“Good night.”

I duck under the pictures to go up the stairs. I can hear the shower on in the master bathroom. Eva's key is nowhere to be found. Today was Shabbat and nobody said a word.

thirty-seven

is it your mom?

thirty-eight

It turns out I didn't have to tell him after all. He already knew.

“What do you mean,
you knew it
? Did Mom tell you last night?” I say.

“No. I just knew it. I knew there was a reason you were skipping class.”

Maybe it's best if I leave Eva out of this.

“Why?” he says.

“Why what?” I ask.

“Why did you push the sculpture?” my father asks.

“We don't know that she did it on purpose,” says my mother, in a rasp that betrays last night's smoking relapse. “Not yet.”

My dad sighs. “Well, Sarah, this didn't just happen. It's been a week already and she hasn't told anybody. She's snuck out of the house. Many times. She'
s been lying. A lot.”

He exhales loudly and turns to me again.

“How did the sculpture find the ground, Miriam?”

My mother rolls her eyes.

“What now, Sarah? What did I say now?”

“It's not time to be cute, Seth.”

The light is coming in, bright and unforgiving through the kitchen window.

“I know that, Sarah,”
he snaps. “I'm just trying to finish a sentence here, and you keep interrupting me with your corrections.”

“It matters. How we talk about it matters.”

“You think I don't know that? I don't have to be her mother to know that. How long have
you
had to come up with the right way to talk about this? A day? Two days? A week? Is this why you went hysterical in that counselor's office?”

This is the first time since I rode in a car seat that I've heard my father raise his voice with my mother. It's usually the other way around, and even that is rare.

“What time is it?” I blurt.

“Miriam … ” my father starts, keeping one hand on the counter to signal he's not done with my mother.

“Aren't you supposed to be going to the market?” I say.

“Nobody's going anywhere,” Mom says softly.

She turns to my father.

“She told me last night. And I told her she had to tell you.”

“Of course she had to tell me. Were you thinking of not telling me?”

Even this last question seems to be for my mother, as if I am not in the room.

“Seth, I think we should both calm down.”

“Were you calm when she told you? Would you like it better if we excused ourselves and had a private talk in the living room about how best to react to the biggest mess in our daughter's life?”

“Hey,” my mother objects, like a coach calling a foul. “You think I don't know it's a mess? I'm the one with the art gallery. I'm the one who taught her to take pictures. You don't think I'm hurt?”

“This isn't about you, Sarah,” he says.

“We don't know what it's about, Seth.”

“Then why don't we ask her, for God's sake.”

“It was Elliot,” I shout. “I guess
is. Was. Whatever.
Elliot is the reason I pushed the sculpture. Adam is the reason I pushed it. You're the reason I pushed it. All of you. I'm the reason I pushed it, and I'm the one who has to live with that.”

Their heads turn to me in tired disbelief. My father's face falls straight into his palms, pushing his glasses away from his head in a clownish gesture, something that would've made me giggle and ask for more only ten years ago. My mom puts her hand on his shoulder and they stand there like that, until his shoulders start to move up and down and she pulls him close to her and they embrace, in our kitchen, right in front of me, in a manner so urgent and intimate I have to get away, and the only place to go is back into my green ocean.

Adam has called me nine times since I left school yesterday, since I silenced my phone to avoid talking to him. He has not left a single message. The last call was early this morning. I dial his number hoping to get his voicemail, and there it is. Thank God for his Saturday runs with his dad. I hang up before the recorded voice. My parents are loading the dishwasher downstairs. I brush my teeth so hard my gums start to bleed.

“Miriam?”

I spit the red water out. “Yes?”

“I brought breakfast.”

“I'm not hungry. Thank you.”

She opens the door and leaves a tray with a defrosted bagel and tea inside the room. She even peeled and sectioned an orange for me, arranging the half-moons in a circle on a paper towel.

“Thanks, Mom.”

“What are you doing?”

“I was just brushing my teeth.”

“Hmm.”

“Adam called my phone this morning,” she says.

“What did he say?”

“I don't know. I didn't pick up.”

Sometime between her breakfast and mine, Mom has showered and dressed. Her skin is red in the places where she rubbed in her face cream, and she's wearing her orange Halloween sweater.

“Does he know?”

I shake my head.

“
We have to talk about what we're going to do,” she says.

“I know, Mom. I know.”

“You should think about it.”

“I will.”

“You had a long night.”

“So did you.”

She looks exhausted.

“I'm sorry about the fight down there. We're just confused and scared. We're just trying … ” she says.

“It's fine, Mom, I get it.”

She breathes and gathers her strength. “I called Ms. K this morning.”

“I wish you would have asked me,” I say.

“Well, you will have to face this, and I don't know where to start.”

“Who else?”

“That's it. Your father and I haven't decided what to do yet.”

“Didn't you say we should do it together?”

“I know you know this, but it's a big deal. I know a lot of the people who work there, Miriam. I can't lie to them.”

“I get it. I'm in trouble.”

“We'll figure it out,” she says.

“Okay,” I say.

She grabs her braid and pulls at the strands to thicken the end.

“Am I going to school on Monday?”

“Well, you have to go back eventually. Why are you asking that?”

“I don't know. Sorry … ”

“Maybe we can all go for a walk somewhere today.”

“I don't really feel like going outside. Where's Dad?”

“He went for a run.”

My father detests running. He thinks only dumb people run. He thinks there's no reason to run when you can walk or ride a bike. The only reason my dad would be caught running is if someone or something was chasing after him.

“Is he coming back?”

She smirks again, and I'm relieved that I can still make her smile.

“I thought you said nobody's going anywhere. He hates running.”

My mother sighs and sits on the very edge of the very corner of my bed, trying not to take up too much room.

“I know it's hard to see him like that, Miriam. You just need to give him a little time. He left because he doesn't want to hurt you.”

That seems to be a trend with men. Leaving you so they don't hurt you. Either a trend or a method.

“Does that seem right to you?”

“Everybody has their way.”

“I don't understand what that means.”

“I don't know if it's right, Miriam. It's what he needs, and I need him to do what he needs to do.”

There's a certain level of logic, or absence of logic, that belongs only in a long marriage. More than ten years, at least. It's a whole different set of rules, as if they are all keepers of powerful secrets, and they constantly remind you that they know something you don't know, and then when you're finally interested, they can't explain it. Like they don't have the words to pass it on. So all you get is this vacant look or half-hearted sigh. A glass panel divides your lives, stupid faces on each side.

“I'll call you when he gets back. Or he'll come up to check on you,” she says.

“I'm just not sure what we're all supposed to be doing.”

She's looking for the words.

“We wanted to be here for you. You have to take responsibility, but we don't want to leave you alone.”

“Okay. Thanks.”

As they go for runs and make breakfast, I float around in my home like oil in water. The more they crowd me, the more I'm convinced this is really my problem to solve.

My mother sneaks out to do something quiet, maybe fold towels. I stick my finger in the bagel hole, wear it like a ring, and bite around the edges. The tea bag is still in the water and the tea is turning too dark to drink without milk. I take a sip. She forgot to bring up the milk. I don't want to go down there to get it.

I decide against getting dressed, since that may suggest that I am up for the walk. If they ask, I will go, but I don't want to encourage it. I have been spending enough time outside. I dial Eva's number and get her voice mail again. I hang up. I dial the number again and leave a message.

“Hi Eva, it's Miriam. I haven't talked to you since the zoo, which I know you know, but I thought I'd remind you. Anyway, I tried to call you and I sent you a couple of messages, but you haven't called me back. I guess you know that too. So, I don't know if you'
ve gone back home or anything, and if you have that's great—”

If you are satisfied with your message, please press one. Otherwise, press two for more options.

Try again. Straight to voicemail, again.

“Hi, it's me again. I got cut off in the middle of my message, so I'll try to make this one short. I don't know where you are, but I'm home. I told my parents about the Picasso. I don't know what's going to happen. I do need my camera. Anyway, give me a call if you want to meet. Bye.”

She probably won't call back until I say I got Pablo in a picture. She was pretty clear about that. There's a chance that she just went back. Maybe she is getting out the face paint for this afternoon, or buying candy for her brother. All of those things are far better than a blurry picture. Maybe she
's done with me.

“Miriam?” The knock comes a second after the voice. “Adam's here.”

“Here?”

My father pops his face in, and I am actually startled by how red it is. The veins on his temples are raised like little green rivers and his shirt has that triangle of sweat only men can produce. He smells like garlic and deodorant.

“Yes. Should I tell him to go?”

I entertain the option. If he tells him to go, Adam will leave, but then I will have to explain why my father showed him out. He might think I told them what happened between us, and that would make him more hopeful than I can handle right now. That would make it all official. If I tell him to come up, he'll ask me why my father looks like a sweaty eggplant.

“Can you tell him I'm not here?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because you are.”

“It's quarter to twelve. Shouldn't you be dressed?” I say.

“Are you asking me that right now?”

I walk past my dad to go downstairs and find Adam in the threshold, hands in the pockets of a brown hoodie, cheeks flushed from what looks like a fast walk over. His eyes are foggy and red, but fixed on mine with an intensity that makes me want to sit down.

“Can I come in?”

“Yeah. Hi. We should stay down here. My parents are upstairs.”

“Sure. I have half an hour, then I have to get back home to help my parents with something.”

He's not interested in why my parents are acting weird. He doesn't even notice. His eyes and hands speak other urgent matters. This is inevitable. This is happening no matter what I do.

“Where were you yesterday? We were supposed to meet at the gate.”

“I know. I had a meeting with a teacher.”

“And your phone wasn't charged. For the entire afternoon, the whole night. It's probably still out, right?”

“Adam.”

“So is your dad's, and your mom's, and I bet your landline is busted too. Along with your computer. And your legs, since I live five blocks from here.”

“It's been a rough couple of days.”

“Because of Thursday?”

“This has nothing to do with you.”

“Bullshit.”

“You shouldn't have showed her my pictures.”

“Why not? She must've liked them. They're up.”

He points to the pictures hung across the entrance hall. I'd forgotten about them. They make me sad. It makes me sad that my dad left them up there, that he had to duck under them on his way out for his run.

“You know that's not the reason why you showed her the pictures.”

“Why did I show her the pictures, then?”

“Because you were mad at me.”

“Wrong, Miriam Feldman. One hundred percent wrong.”

I stop my eyes mid-way to the ceiling.

“I gave her the pictures because I wanted to see you.”

There's nothing I can say to this face, not now.

“You want to be a big mystery? All right. Well, then don't act surprised if everybody's looking all over for you. We would all just chill out if you would just tell us.”

“Who's
we?
Tell us what?”

“Where's my camera, Meem?”

“Upstairs,” I hiss, which makes Adam lower his eyes, which gives me a little more steam. “You wanted to see me. I'm here. What?”

He straightens up a little, and the bumps on his sweater smooth out. There's a piece of lint in his hair I'm not allowed to pick out. He presses his palms together and looks at me.

“
You need to tell me.” He starts to crack his fingers, one by one. “I already told you. Now you need to tell me. Because I'm not going to wait for you after school if you don't want to be there. With me. You don't know what that's like. I'm not going to just sit here and come up with stupid tricks to get you to pay attention to me. I'm not sad about what happened. I loved kissing you. So I'm not going to sit here and watch you ruin it for me. If you want me, I'm here. If you don'
t, that's it. I will get used to it. I will get over it. But you have to tell me.”