A Place Apart (10 page)

“Yes?” I whispered into the mouthpiece. It was Elizabeth.

“Mom is in the hospital,” she said in a level voice. “When I got home, I was too tired to remember to hide those cigarettes. She found them. She started to scream that I was killing myself, so she might as well gobble up all the pills in the medicine chest and kill herself, too. She locked herself in the bathroom. Daddy had to break the door down. I just wanted to tell you …” Her voice cracked like a plate and she hung up.

Mrs. Marx stayed in the hospital until the end of the summer. When she came home, Elizabeth told me she was quiet and thin and sad. She never asked Elizabeth anything: not where she'd been, not where she was going or what she was thinking about. She had to take special pills twice a day and she would have to take them for a long time.

Elizabeth said there were two ways, now, that she'd known her mother—crazy and noisy, and sane and silent—and she wondered if there would ever be a third way.

I thought how I had once wanted to describe my entire life to another person and have them explain my secrets to me. It occurred to me now that you had to keep a few secrets to yourself, and that they weighed a good deal. Sometimes, they could drive you crazy.

CHAPTER SIX

Every summer, as far back as I can remember, my father and my mother and I had taken a trip. On a morning in August, there would be three suitcases on the front steps, and a picnic basket for our first day's traveling, and a little canvas bag of maps and guides. When I think of those Augusts past, it is like looking at an old patchwork quilt. There are the islands off Cape Cod, and here is the Gaspé Peninsula, or Prince Edward Island, and in the middle of the quilt is an absolutely motionless lake, as blue as a sapphire, and that was in the Adirondack Mountains. Once, we drove south seven hundred miles to Cape Hatteras … coastal rats, my father called us.

I remember all those boring hours in the back seat of the car, crumbs in the upholstery from all the crackers I ate, along with the broken bits of crayons I used to color books to pass the time, and on the floor of the car, crumpled and torn pages of comic books that look old five seconds after you've read them. I remember all the stops for gas and food and bathroom, or sometimes just to stretch our legs in some wooded spot where Papa would exclaim over the beer cans and garbage left about, and Ma would calm him down.

The place I remember best was a pond at the end of a narrow gray road in Maine that had led us through a thick forest, and Papa had said that that forest was what the French fur trappers saw, hunters who had come to these parts long before they were settled by other Europeans, traveling across the ocean in long, narrow boats to an unknown land.

We didn't always have a good time. One August, it rained every single day on the island off the coast of Maine that Papa had wanted to visit, and I just wandered around the stony beach tripping over mountains of slimy brown seaweed. At least, that's how I remember it.

Ma and I couldn't manage a long trip. We only had our bicycles. So we decided to take a bus to a village a few miles north of Boston where Ma had heard there was a pretty, old inn built on a cliff over the water. We planned to go for a week.

I liked the idea of going off with my mother and not having to see Lawrence Grady for a few days. There were things about him that made me snarl inside. He had supper with us the night before we left. Ma said she was putting on too much weight, and from now on, she was just going to have coffee and half a grapefruit for breakfast.

“Not me!” said Lawrence Grady. “My breakfast is sacred!”

Imagine anybody thinking their breakfast was sacred! Ma just laughed as though he had made a good joke. I left the table. Wait until I told Hugh about the “sacred breakfast”! I imagined Hugh meeting Lawrence Grady, Hugh, polite and distant, with a slightly amused expression which Mr. Grady wouldn't see at all. And Mr. Grady would be uneasy because Hugh would be so very, very courteous. Afterward, Hugh would imitate him for me, and tell me all the things that were funny about him. Suddenly I felt ashamed. I had a sense of myself bringing people to Hugh so he could chew them up.

In the morning, I looked at our two suitcases by the front door. No picnic basket, no canvas bag of maps, no third suitcase.

“You're not dead,” I whispered.

Ma had heard me. “He is,” she said, and took my hand in hers.

“It's different for you,” I said in sudden anger. “I can't get a new father!”

She picked up her suitcase. “Who can?” she asked. I would have said more but she looked dangerous and I let it drop. We didn't speak much on the trip to Boston.

Just before we changed to the bus traveling north, Ma took a half-empty pack of cigarettes out of her bag.

“Witness this,” she said, and dropped the pack into a trash bin. “Now, if you see me sneaking into a tobacco store, you can make a citizen's arrest.”

“Do you mean it?”

“I don't know,” she replied. “But I'll try.”

The vacation seemed to begin right then. Ma talked all the way to Edgewater, the place where we were to spend our week. I saw her glancing frequently at the smokers bathed in their clouds. Then her voice got louder. Talking must have made her feel better. I didn't always listen closely, even though I was interested in her stories about the boarding school she had gone to when she was my age.

I was thinking about Hugh Todd, thinking that here I was, on a lumpy seat in a tattered old bus, and he was probably sitting on a velvet chair in a palace in Italy. I wondered what he was like when he was by himself, walking down a street alone, and if he ever thought of me. I missed him then, with a sharp gloomy missing that didn't seem to have much to do with the thousands of miles between us.

We arrived at Edgewater at twilight. Main Street was only a few blocks long. A spindly handrail ran along the sidewalk on the water side, opposite the little shops that sold magazines or bathing suits. Down below the rocky cliffs, I could see the gray ocean, which lay there like the earth's armor. Our inn was at the north end of the village.

Ma had once told me about five blind philosophers who were touching an elephant, trying to figure out what it was, and each philosopher described the whole animal according to the part he'd got hold of.

I think someone must have hired that same gang to build the inn. It wandered all over the rocks on different levels. None of the windows matched, and we had to spend some time figuring out which, among so many doors, was the entrance.

We went up a long flight of broad creaking stairs to our room. It was big and smelled musty and stale, and the bed coverlets were as thin as paper. But that first evening, when we sat in the dining room, which looked out over the Atlantic, it felt fine, much better than a motel. We were brought little ordinary glasses filled with ordinary tomato juice, but the glasses stood on pretty plates covered with faded flowers and that made it seem like a party. I looked out the big, dusty window next to our table, and I could see lights over the water. It was as though the black sky and the black water were only a thick cloth and those pinpoints of light showed another ocean and another sky that was always light.

The week went slowly for me. I was bored except when I was reading
Wuthering Heights.
Lawrence Grady had given it to me before we left. It was a small book, not much larger than my hand, and I liked its size and neatness nearly as much as I liked the story. With our books, and a bag of apples and cheese, Ma and I would go to the Edgewater beach, a collar of round gray stones at the bottom of the cliffs which we climbed down to on rickety wooden stairs.

It was the first time I remember ever feeling restless alone with my mother. I wrote a long letter to Elizabeth, including two pages I left blank except for a question mark in the middle of each one, and I told her part of my thoughts. I wrote quickly until my fingers began to ache. As I read the letter over, I counted thirty-two
I'
s, so I added a description of some other people in the inn that was so boring it made me groan out loud. In my mind, I wrote to Hugh, and that letter was marvelous and it made him leap from the velvet chair in the palace in Italy and rush to the nearest airport and fly home. I even began the letter in reality, but the moment I had written the two words: Dear Hugh, I flung down the pen and felt my face turn red. My handwriting was childish and, even worse, looked
pudgy!
His writing was neat and clear, each letter formed so distinctly. I was glad I didn't have his address.

On our last evening in Edgewater, after supper, after a long, blue day like the one Hugh had described in Tierra del Fuego, Ma and I took a walk.

The sea was a dark-lilac color, and there was a sickle moon. Other people were out walking, too, along the cliff edge. I suddenly thought of Hugh's father, plunging over a cliff in his rented car, and I felt a stab of fear at the thought of all the things that can happen to a person, and I wondered what might happen to me.

Ma put her arm around my shoulders, and I leaned against her. I realized that I was as tall as she was, and I would have to stoop to rest my head on her shoulder the way I used to.

“I'm glad we had this week together,” she said. “It's been a bit boring, I know, but in a pleasant way, hasn't it?”

I laughed a little, glad she had known how I was feeling and relieved to be distracted from my thoughts. We paused at the stairs that led to the beach. A boy of about twelve, wearing a bright-red sweatshirt, was sitting on the top step, blowing softly into a harmonica.

“Want to go down?” Ma asked.

But I didn't. It looked dark and lonely down there where the little waves breaking made a chalky line against the shore.

“Tory,” she said. Her voice had changed. It was solemn. I glanced at her quickly, at her profile, and I saw, just past her forehead, a star that seemed for an instant to be attached to her.

“What would you think if I got married again?” she asked. “Would you find it very hard to take?”

I didn't answer. I wanted time to go backward, just two minutes, to when we'd been silent, listening to the boy play his harmonica. I had known what she was going to say—the way you suddenly hear a tune someone is whistling and you realize that same tune was in your head a second before you heard it.

“Tory,” she said again, her voice low and less grave. For a moment, I imagined myself to be a crazy queen who could tell everyone what they had to do: Jump off the cliff! Bring me a golden harp! Never marry again!

At that same moment, an ancient woman, small as a peanut, wearing floppy white tennis shoes that shone in the dusky light, passed us hurriedly. She was singing to herself:
Greensleeves is all my joy …

“The Yankee cuckoo,” Ma said.

“I don't know how I feel about your getting married,” I said. “I guess it's not up to me.” My voice rose as if I was asking a question.

“No. It isn't,” she said. “But I care about the way you feel.”

I would have to live at home three more years. At home! How would Lawrence Grady fit his big self into our little house? Maybe I would be the one, not Elizabeth, to drop out of school and get a job waiting on tables in Province-town. Did they have restaurants there in the winter?

“Is he going to move in with us?”

“No. We'll have to find a bigger place. We've been talking about it—”

“—Is that why you went to Marblehead? To look for a place?”

“Yes.”

“You didn't tell me.”

She looked out at the sea. “I didn't know how to. I don't know how to even now. That's why I just said it.”

“His breakfasts are sacred,” I muttered.

Ma pretended she hadn't heard that. “We've decided to look in Boston,” she said. “You and I can go to school there as well as in New Oxford.”

“I'll have to leave Elizabeth,” I said, thinking about leaving Hugh. But Hugh himself was going to be leaving in another year. I felt I'd been suddenly dropped back into that empty landscape of my first weeks in New Oxford, and then further back, to those terrible days in our old house in Boston when Ma and I had seemed to drift around like dry leaves. And then I went back years, back to a round kitchen table, and in the middle of it a big glass bowl of floating island, and Papa lifting out the meringues with a spoon and piling my plate with them. I wanted, suddenly, to see Hugh standing in front of me. I wanted to grab his arm and hold on to it so he wouldn't disappear into the future the way Papa had disappeared into the past.

“It won't be until next summer, Tory,” Ma said. “Not until you finish the tenth grade.”

I knew then the whole thing had been decided. I couldn't lie to myself, tell myself that Ma didn't care about me, but I wished I didn't know that she did. The truth was—there was nothing I could do to change anything.

“Maybe I'll get used to it,” I said. But I knew I wouldn't. My mother, my father, me. We were set forever in a picture in my mind. There was a new picture now. I wasn't in it. I could feel my mother looking at me. Once, I looked back at her. I knew she was worried; I could see the frown lines in her face. The boy with the harmonica had disappeared. The star had moved. It seemed hours ago that I had imagined it attached to Ma's forehead.

“Let's go back to the inn,” I said. “I want to finish
Wuthering Heights
.”

She nodded, and we began to walk slowly back. Neither of us spoke. Now and then I had trouble breathing. It was as if there was a lump of feeling lodged in my throat. The sense of something unfinished between us was hard for me to bear. I wanted to speak, but I didn't know what I wanted to say. Just before we went to bed, I startled myself with an explosion of words.

“Ma. It's not been a year since Papa died,” I said. I was looking out the window at the dark sea, my back to her.