Wish You Were Here (62 page)

“Hurry up,” she said. “The rest of us have to use the bathroom too.”

It would show up tomorrow, she thought, just like at home. He'd stick it under the dresser or drop it behind the cedar chest, somewhere someone else would find it when they were cleaning up.

“What is he doing in there?” Sarah asked. She'd gathered her hair in a ponytail to wash her face, a strand curling by her ear, and again Ella was aware of how powerful she was, how far from her.

When Sam was done they brushed their teeth together, jostling each other at the sink, elbowing and joking. It was an act. Every touch made Ella cringe inside like she was telling a lie. She was just lucky to be with her like this. She should enjoy it now.

“Here,” Sarah said, “try this,” and handed her a tube of peppermint scrub.

Ella lathered her face and splashed it off, her cheeks tight and tingling. At home, alone, with her face straight on, the mirror let her pretend, but with Sarah there beside her, she had to admit the truth. She would never be beautiful, not like that. No one would ever think of her the way she thought of Sarah.

“This is my favorite,” Sarah said, and squeezed a pink blob on Ella's palm. “It's called Strawberry Smooth.”

Ella watched her rub it into her cheeks, then imitated her, working the excess into the backs of her hands. It felt sticky and smelled sweet, and even though she and Caitlin made fun of the girls who wore candy-flavored lip gloss and stunk up the bus, she said, “It's nice.”

Her mother came up to bug them, tucking Sam and Justin in. “It's like an oven up here,” she said to no one, and tried to open the window higher but it was stuck, her father had already tried a million times.

She and Sarah lay on top of their sleeping bags. Ella had to take off her glasses to read, and she knew she looked squinty and stupid.

“At ten o'clock that light goes off,” her mother threatened, then finally left.

Ella wanted to talk, but Sarah was almost finished with her book. Ella had lost interest in her own, the fortune-teller warning the queen of the upcoming battle between Good and Evil. The books were all the same. In the end, something magical happened and everyone got what they wanted. They were so fake.

The boys were noisy across the room, rustling the slippery skins of their bags. Ella shushed them once, twice.

“Stop,” Justin said.

“Sam,” Ella warned.

“Oooo, I'm scared.”

She thought she'd have to get up, and then a couple of minutes later they were both asleep, whistling. Ella looked to Sarah to show her they were alone.

Her eyes were closed, her face turned from her book, still upright on her chest. With her hair covering one eye, she looked like the princess after she drank the sleeping potion. Even asleep she was beautiful, and the urge to kiss her rose again. She could see how it would be, bending to her, their lips sticking together, the sweet strawberry smell of her skin, the soft, worn nightshirt. For a long moment Ella watched her breathing, and then, afraid Sarah might catch her, took the book from her hands—Sarah murmuring, rolling—found her bookmark and saved her place.

She got up and turned out the light and for a while she couldn't see her, but then her eyes got used to the dark, and there she was, right beside her. Ella shifted so her face was even with Sarah's.

She couldn't tell her. It would ruin everything. She'd end up with nothing. This was as close as she'd ever get.

She didn't say the words out loud, just mouthed them.

He didn't think he was that stoned until he tripped over a wicket and dropped one of the beers he was carrying, the bottle thudding on the lawn, rolling to a stop. The moon helped him find it—his now, a slippery time bomb. It was cool out, dew settling in the air, the dank smell of the water pronounced, and the locusts were slower, only a few of them still going. The lake held the light; the dock was outlined in silver. At the far end he could see the black shadows of Meg and Lise sitting on the bench, the
gap between them he'd vacated. Above the hills on the far shore the stars were locked in their turning, fastened to an invisible pane of glass, and he sensed in their vastness and permanence the curvature of the earth, the smallness of its orbit, the swiftness of the seasons.

He was wrecked. Polluted, they used to call it.

He'd only sneaked a couple of hits from the torpedo Meg left for him in the garage, but he was sure he reeked. He stopped to open the good beer (his hands were sore from golf, and the bottle cap dug into his skin) and swished it cold through his teeth, let it fizz on his tongue. He took another swig on the dock for insurance, knowing Lise would see his indulgence as a betrayal, siding with Meg against her. Even after so many years he was leery of leaving them alone too long, afraid their conversation might stray into dangerous territory, old slights and sudden confessions.

Lise held up a hand for her beer, took it without looking.

“What I don't understand,” she was saying, “is why she couldn't find a way to transfer ownership to you guys, if that's what she really wanted. She could have done that anytime after the estate was settled. This way everyone has to come to her.”

“I don't think so,” Meg said. “You know she can't stand any last-minute stuff. It makes her nervous.”

“That's even better. It gives her an excuse to freak out.”

He sat between them, a referee. Lise twisted the cap off and the beer burped, a puff of gas, nothing.

“She doesn't need an excuse,” Meg said. “She's already got enough of them this summer.”

“Like that thing with the ants,” Lise persisted.

“That's going to happen no matter what,” Ken said. “Hey, are we signed up for tennis tomorrow?”

“Change the subject,” Lise said. “All we could get was eight o'clock.”

“That's good. We have to get going early if we're going to get everything in.”

“What else?”

“I told the boys we'd go to Panama Rocks.”

“Why?” Meg asked, like it was a waste of time.

He shrugged. “They wanted to go.”

He didn't have to say that he remembered the whole family going when he was a boy, that the week wouldn't be complete without a visit. It
was as much a part of Chautauqua as Friday night at Webb's or the mornings he spent at the Putt-Putt honing his stroke. And Meg didn't have to counter, saying she hated the place and the sad outcast she'd been then. Tomorrow he'd offer to take them himself, and she'd relent, hurrying them through the tour, never leaving the path, a new, stingy tradition, one the kids laughed at, not knowing they were being cruel.

“Where are these meteor showers we're supposed to be seeing?” Meg asked.

“In the east,” he said stiffly, swimming against the warm currents in his head. He was afraid he'd say something stupid or unintelligible and give himself away. “They say you can see them best between two and five, but there should be some singles starting about now.”

The words didn't fit his mouth, came out square and ready-made, odd boxes that evaporated, leaving meaning. It must have been some new kind of hybrid.

He scanned the stars for movement, checking one section of the sky, then another. Lise took his hand as they looked up, knitting her fingers with his, and he thought he wouldn't get to talk to Meg. Everything she'd said so far had been censored for Lise's benefit, and meant to feed his curiosity, the same way his mother kept them in suspense, whether the issue was what was for dinner or what was in his father's will. Maybe everything in their family really was about attention, that infantile desire—including his pictures, his need for approval and lack of success. He couldn't write the thought off to being high.

“I see a plane,” Meg said. “Does that count?”

“I've got two,” Lise said, and helped them find the other one.

A few houses toward the point, someone turned on a dock light, then turned it off again, an accident.

The bell came across the water.

“Anything?”

“Nope.”

“Nothing here.”

Except he was watching one bright star winking, as if there were a disturbance in the lens of the atmosphere like a drop of water that drew the light to one side and then let it go, all in an instant, again and again. He thought of how far they'd traveled to be here, and how much further his mother and Arlene had come, their lives trailing behind them, dense with memories of rooms, though the ones that came to him were his own—
those college apartments in Boston, their living room window looking out on sunny Beacon Street, Lise's parents' beach place. Twenty years. The idea tired him.

Meg lit a cigarette with a Bic, her face and hands flaring, then disappearing again. “My neck hurts. I think you're supposed to do this lying down.”

“I think you're right,” Lise said, but none of them moved, so he didn't suggest the blanket.

Tomorrow—somehow—he would find the time to do the Putt-Putt. Maybe he'd go to the hardware for some lighter fluid. There'd been no word on Tracy Ann Caler, and there probably wouldn't be. Her flyers would fade on the telephone poles, shreds held by rusting staples.

The last of his beer was warm and he didn't want another, a signal that the night was over. Lise finished hers.

“Come on,” he said, “shower!”

Lise squeezed his hand, embarrassed.

High up, planes silently drew lines between the stars. They all turned toward the bell. He thought of using it as an excuse; tomorrow was going to be long.

Meg stretched and glanced around as if checking the weather.

“Well,” she said, slapping her hands down on her knees, “it doesn't look like this is going to happen.”

Before he could agree, she stood and said her good nights and tottered off—so suddenly that he knew Lise would comment on it once she was gone, wonder out loud if she'd been drinking. That was wrong, he thought. She was being generous, leaving, and he was grateful. It meant that—tonight, at least—he didn't have to choose between the two of them.

In the middle of the night Sarah got up to pee. The fan was like a train. She sat on the toilet by the orange night-light, her elbows on her knees, her face in her hands. A breeze came through the screen, and the moon was over the big pine tree, and she thought of Mark, whether he was still awake, who he'd be with. She thought of school, and now she was glad it would be all new. People would still talk but not as much.

She wouldn't have to listen to Korn or the Deftones anymore. She wouldn't have to go to his stupid hockey games or eat dinner with his parents. She'd be free.

She was done but sat there watching the shadow of a small moth on the screen, heart-shaped and motionless among the other bugs. They crawled and bounced off the mesh, busy, while it stayed there, stuck, like it might be dead. What was it waiting for?

“Come on,” Grandma said, “help me get rid of these,” so they had eggs instead of Lucky Charms. They had to be quiet or they'd wake everyone else up. They couldn't go out on the dock without an adult. They couldn't play their Game Boys—they'd have to ask their mothers about that.

They were going to play tennis later, but the badminton net wouldn't stay up, and then Sam knocked the big wiffle ball in the lake and Aunt Arlene had to take off her flip-flops and wade in to get it.

“That can't be good for those racquets,” she said. “Why don't you play a nice game of croquet?”

Justin wanted to play golf, after last night, but Grandma said the clubs in the garage were expensive and not for children. “Why don't you go ride your bikes?” she said.

Sam was better at it than Justin was, and kept pretending to crash into him, slamming his brakes on at the last minute and fishtailing sideways, leaving thick skid marks. He did it too hard once and almost knocked Justin down.

“Stop!” Justin said. “Idiot.”

“Ya ya ya,” Sam said, and did it again.

“Stop it!”

“Don't be such a spaz,” Sam said, and pulled ahead, slowed almost to a stop, then turned around and circled behind him.

Justin did his best to ignore him. It was quiet with no one else out. Bugs flew through patches of sun on the lawns. He was glad it was the last day.

At home his PlayStation was waiting for him in the basement, and their old refrigerator full of ginger ale and Hi-C. Upstairs in the cupboards there would be Pop-Tarts and Easy Mac, and if it was nice Sarah would take him to the pool. If Michael Schulz was back from vacation they could go over to Turtle Pond and fish from the bridge.
Pokémon
was on every
day now except Sunday, and next weekend his father would take them somewhere in his Camaro, maybe to a Tigers game at the new stadium, which looked really cool. He could stay up late because there was no school yet, and then he would read under the covers with his flashlight until his mother told him to turn it off.

Sam came wailing by and hit the brakes in front of him, showing off. “Race you to the marina.”

“Okay,” Justin said, and let him go.

Sam turned around. “Come on.”

“Your bike's faster than mine.”

“I'll give you a head start.”

“How much?”

As they haggled, they passed the shortcut to the fishponds. It wasn't that far, just around the bend and down the long straightaway. “To the dock or just the parking lot?”

“To the dock.”

He thought if he got ten seconds he might beat him.

“Okay,” Sam said, “ten seconds. Starting … now.”

It took him to one-thousand-three just to get going, tilting the whole bike right and then left with each long push until he couldn't hear Sam anymore. He ducked his head, and the road rolled under his tires, white stones stuck in the black asphalt. He tried to ride in a straight line, hunched against the wind like a racer. He should have counted to himself so Sam couldn't cheat, because in no time he was right behind him, calling, “You're meat, Carlisle!”