Outside the Ordinary World (19 page)

“She’s always been high-strung,” I tell him. “She’s just wired that way.”

“So, Sylvie,” he scowls. “Are we supposed to feel smug because other people’s kids are in worse shape?”

“That’s not what I was—”

“We’re supposed to be reassured because she hasn’t had her first abortion yet, or what?” He slumps onto a stool at the counter, drops his head into his hands. I can almost see the disenchantments of his forty-five years—our house, his job, the intricate knots of family, the endless toil tugging his tendons, failure’s shadow stalking him. I resist my habitual impulse to squeeze his shoulder, run my fingers over his spiky hair. I can’t bear to touch him just now, with the memory of another man so freshly inscribed in my skin cells. And not for the first time, I’m seized by a sickening urge to confess—
why not just have out with everything?
Instead, I shove my hands in my pockets and discover Tai’s heart-shaped agate nestled against my groin. The edginess that’s gripped me of late takes hold again. I need a cigarette, a solitary walk in the dark.

“Let’s just see how things pan out,” I whisper, clutching my elbows. “In three weeks we’ll go to California for Christmas. Maybe seeing her grandma and cousins will snap her out of it. We can plan some special time with her, without Emmie.”

He’s silent now, looking at me sideways.

“Nathan? Don’t you think that’s a reasonable plan?”

“Yeah. Only, I’m not coming west with you.” He drains his glass, sets it on the counter.

“What?”

“Not this time—there’s just too much work to do on the house.”

“I see. And it doesn’t matter to you that my grandmother’s dying? That you may not—”

“No offense, Sylvie, but your gram has been ‘dying’ for the past ten years.”

“I think this is different.” My rage is bubbling to the surface now, laced with ten years’ worth of quarrels in this kitchen, the slow erosion of hope.

“We haven’t seen my family for four years. We haven’t even—”

“I know. Look, I can come Christmas day if you want. But it seems nuts to spend six days, when there’s so much to do at the site.” He isn’t saying anything about how far we’ve been sliding, how distant he feels, but I see it in his closed-door expression, the tilt of his jaw, arms clenched protectively over his heart. Maybe he senses my betrayal, the way a dog smells fear.

“Okay,” I finally say. “I’m not going to force you to come.” The truth is, part of me is relieved. Part of me needs the extra bubble of space his absence will provide—space in the bed beside me, space for my mind to wander and spin, space for missing Tai.

Now he’s cataloging all the tasks he wants to accomplish over the holidays, all the things needing his attention more than the girls and I: milling up the trim, laying the mudroom tiles…. The list goes on, unrealistic as ever, and my restiveness builds to a painful pitch. I lace up my boots, rummage in the cubbies for mittens.

“You going somewhere?” Nathan pauses in his diatribe.

“Just for a walk.”

“Another walk, huh? I think I’ll catch a few scores then.”

“You do that. Have a nice sleep on the sofa.”

“Oh, Sylvie. Cut me some slack, for Chrissake.”

But before we can get into it, I’m busting out the door, rushing into the night. November air slaps my cheeks as I squint at distant constellations, fumbling to light one of the cigarettes Tai has left with me. Then I inhale deeply, as if taking my first real breath after a long dive underwater. I move fast in the darkness, wishing I had a dog to justify all this walking to the neighbors who pass me in their cars, or peer out their windows. The moon casts an ephemeral light on the Fullers’ barn, the abandoned paper mill, the Lutheran church spire, the distant black line of the Berkshires just beyond town.

In Tai’s bed next week, I’ll feel myself begin to sink beneath the questions and conversations, beneath guilt and silence, flesh and floorboards, beneath years of erasure and disenchantment, beneath the wild frozen earth to a time before everything came apart.

ONE SUNDAY MORNING IN APRIL, MY FATHER WOKE US
all early and said he had a surprise—just the thing our family needed—and we had to get out of bed and get moving. He looked a little crazed. He clearly hadn’t slept much, seemed wired on coffee and was cultivating a beard that now covered his face in random, silvery-black patches.

The three of us dressed as quickly as we could and squeezed into the Corvette, my mother sending Ali and me worried glances. The last time Dad had done something like this, three years back, it turned out he’d bought a dairy farm in Modesto that went bankrupt within months. Lately, he’d been talking about wanting to buy his own winery.

“I hope this isn’t one of your crazy investment schemes,” Mom said as we veered onto Newport Freeway. He just kept driving west, weaving in and out of the fast lane.

We parked at a private marina in Newport Beach, unfolded ourselves from the Corvette. Mom squeezed my fingers as we followed Dad and Ali across the parking lot and down a series of shifting wooden docks bobbing with yachts of every size. My sister was practically skipping with excitement by the time Dad halted before a gleaming, forty-foot sailboat. As we stood gawking on the dock, he explained that he’d been learning to sail on Saturdays, investigating currents and navigation so that the four of us could sail to Catalina Island on weekends, or maybe down the coast to Ensenada. He was even thinking of entering some amateur races.

“Cool.” Alison climbed aboard without hesitation, running her hand over the bright blue sail covers as if surveying her rightful inheritance. “This is so
totally
awesome.”

“I thought you might like it.” He handed us all sun visors and matching red Windbreakers with the boat’s name embroidered across the back in block letters. We were supposed to suit up now, I gathered, become a team.

“But, Don, I haven’t the faintest idea how to sail.” Mom’s face was pale with shock.

“You can learn,” he said, hoisting her onto the starboard deck. “I’ll teach all of you.”

He’d named the boat
Allegiance.

But it turned out that my mother couldn’t learn, despite several weekends’ worth of trying. She had severe seasickness that no amount of Dramamine could cure. After two hours of motoring around in the fog, that first day, Mom miserably puking into a bucket, we gave up and headed in. My father stood at the helm, scowling beneath the brim of his red
Allegiance
hat, as if personally affronted. I could read what he was thinking in the weave of his brow, the muscled knot of his jaw: we’d never even made it to the open sea. We’d never even hoisted the goddamn mainsail. Somehow, she’d managed to overturn another dream.

Still, he had no intention of giving up his nautical aspirations—not after all he’d invested. He joined the Newport Yacht Club, hired a small crew of local sailors and continued to spend his Saturdays at sea, while Mom, Alison and I went to Sabbath school and church. Occasionally, we lunched out with Mr. Robert. In June, Dad announced his ambition to enter the Ensenada Challenge at the end of the summer. He and his crew would be gone for the better part of three weeks. This was just the opportunity my mother had been waiting for.

We left in the cool dawn, huddled like refugees in our blankets. As Mom pushed us into the back of the big silver Mercedes, I asked, “What about my stuff?”

“Your things are in the trunk,” she said, tucking the blanket tighter around me, fastening my seat belt. “Ali, give one of those pillows to your sister.”

“Why are we up so early?” Ali asked, shoving a pillow into my face. “What time is it?”

“It’s five-fifteen in the morning—practically time for breakfast.” Mr. Robert slid into the driver’s seat, smiling—a jolly captor. He smelled of aftershave, nylon and cold morning air. He squeezed Mom’s hand once before starting the car, backing out of the driveway. I nestled farther into my cocoon of blankets.

My father had left the previous morning. He’d been in a rare cheerful mood as he packed his duffle bags and sailing gear in the Corvette, slammed the trunk. He’d even kissed us all twice, promising presents and asking Ali and me to take good care of our mother. “You hold down the fort now, my sweet peas,” he’d said, ruffling our hair before he drove away. I’d felt a sharp stab of guilt, knowing that we wouldn’t need to take care of Mom, since Mr. Robert would soon be assuming that job.

We were on our way to Wallowa, in Oregon’s far northeastern corner, where Mr. Robert owned a cabin. By the time we crossed the state line, leaving California’s parched landscapes for Oregon’s wild green ones, my father was already navigating the open seas with his mates.

The Wallowa Valley looked like Eden compared to Orange County’s looping freeway overpasses and smog-choked skies. Extravagant fields opened before us, dotted with wildflowers and giant rolls of hay. Big-bellied horses flanked homey farmhouses and brooks tumbled from the snowcapped mountains growing on the horizon. Mr. Robert narrated the sights and my mother wrapped her fingers around his wrist, while Ali continued reading her book.

I just stared, picturing myself on one of these farms, tending the horses, exploring the countryside like a young Annie Oakley. Our secret trips with Mr. Robert always had this effect, luring me into the bright, seductive rooms of fancied lives. If we lived in one of these clean Oregon farmhouses, I could have Theresa up for a weekend that would leave her weak-kneed. I’d had Theresa over a handful of times in the past year, but she never stayed long. After all, what was a pool compared with her menagerie of animals and her groovy, permissive parents? Only once I’d asked her to dinner and it was a terrible mistake: my mother served warmed-over pizza, Ali came in late complaining of a headache, my father didn’t show and Mom sat silent through the whole meal, forehead in her hand. As I was walking Theresa back home that night, she draped her arm over my shoulders. “Sy, you can come to my house anytime you want,” she offered, and a lump of gratitude and shame worked its way into my chest.

But if we lived up here, we’d eat dinner around a table overflowing with farm-fresh produce. Mom would play piano while Mr. Robert sang his ridiculous songs, and Theresa would laugh so hard, she’d pee in her pants. Then we’d ride the horses across open farmland until she exclaimed, “I can’t believe I spent years riding around a stupid ring!”

From then on, Mr. Robert didn’t have to work so hard at wooing me. I didn’t even mind that his cabin was small and unkempt. “I’m afraid it’s a bit rustic,” he apologized as we hauled our bags through the narrow kitchen. “And no one’s really cleaned since—well, since last time I was here.” He shook out a cobwebby gingham curtain.

“It smells funny.” Ali made a sour face.

“Alison,”
Mom scolded. “I’m sure it will spruce up just fine with a little cleaning.”

“It’s the river you smell,” Mr. Robert said. “The moisture works its way into things.” He led us to the great room, which housed an enormous stone fireplace. Pictures lined the hearth. There were several of Mom—at the beach, in a hotel lobby, standing in a meadow somewhere—and I wondered when they’d been taken. In some she looked quite young. The other photos were all of Mr. Robert’s children. It seemed there were two boys and a girl, about my age. “That’s Randy and Lou, and this one’s Lisa.” Mr. Robert pointed to each one. “They’re all teenagers now. Lou just turned twenty, in fact.” I knew Mr. Robert had children, but I’d never considered them as actual people, with birthdays and pimples, feelings and graduation gowns, and now here they were, staring from their frames as if demanding an explanation. They made me uncomfortable, so I turned my back on them to investigate the shelves full of board games, a few old Zane Grey hardbacks. I ran my fingers over the broken spines while Ali examined the two hard couches.

“Where are we supposed to sleep?” she asked.

“Well, there’s the double bed, which is passable,” offered Mr. Robert. “And I thought you girls could put your sleeping bags on these couches.” He seemed suddenly ashamed, an un-practiced host moving to pull back the curtains and crank open the windows. Instantly, the cabin was full of soft light, the sound of rushing water.

“It’ll be sort of like camping, girls,” Mom piped in. “Only with a few more comforts.” She needn’t have assured me. I’d already discovered the cedar deck outside, overhanging a frothy mountain river.

“That’s the Wallowa River,” Mr. Robert called. “It’s got one heck of a current, and it’ll freeze your batoozies off, but I try to cross it each year. Just beyond those trees are the stables.”

“
Horse
stables?”

“That’s right, little twerp. You can go riding every day if it suits you.” I resisted the urge to grab Mr. Robert’s slack, embarrassed cheeks and kiss him.

“It’ll feel just like home in no time,” Mom said, joining me on the deck.

“Yeah, if you happen to live in a bear pit,” muttered Ali.

My sister continued to sulk as we drove to town for groceries and cleaning supplies. She and Mom had been at war for months now, waging daily skirmishes over Ali’s clothes and makeup, friends and pastimes. And, of course, Leslie Brown.

“So, Mom,” Ali said slyly as we pulled up to the western storefront of the Joseph Market. “I can’t quite figure out the math on this problem.”

“What’s that, honey?” Mom’s tone was decidedly cautious beneath its sugary coating.

“Well, there are three beds in that cabin, and there are four of us—how does that work?”

“For your information, Miss Smarty Pants, there are
four
beds.” Mom’s nostrils flared as she faced Ali in the back. “There’s a cot out on the sunporch for Robert, and maybe you’d have noticed, if you hadn’t been so busy complaining.”

“Good.” My sister struggled to keep her expression placid. “We wouldn’t want you getting in trouble.”

“You just watch your own backside, young lady.” Mom was breathing hard, trying to pull the emergency brake on Mr. Robert’s car. “And let’s try to have a good time while we’re here, okay? Let’s just try to be happy.”

“Well, she can’t control
that,
can she?” Ali grumbled after Mom disappeared behind the milky shop windows. “She can’t force us to be happy here.”

For my own part, I soon decided that I would stay in Wallowa forever. Each morning in that cabin, I woke to the river’s gentle rushing and the smell of Mr. Robert’s cooking. I’d hear my sister’s even breathing across the room and Mom’s quiet laughter spilling from the kitchen. A strange sense of peace nested in my ribs then, like a gray bird in the rafters. I didn’t want to move much for fear that it would take flight in the country air and never return. So I just lay snug in my sleeping bag, looking at the chinks of brilliant light dotting the cabin’s sides. Finally, I’d get up and wander in to Mom and Mr. Robert, giggling near the stove, feeding each other samples from stacks of golden pancakes or cartons of fresh berries.

Mr. Robert loved to make breakfast. Ali and I stared at each other over the plastic tablecloth, amazed and skeptical at the spread—fried grits and tomatoes, eggs Benedict, blueberry nut waffles. We’d never eaten such breakfasts. And we’d never seen our mother quite this jovial. She wouldn’t even let us do dishes, but whisked them happily away, insisting we go out and enjoy the good weather. “It won’t last forever,” she said.

After only a few days in Wallowa, Ali and I discovered the main drag, where boys in their cars, or their father’s cars, went cruising. We walked that street on the way to the lake and back each day, and sometimes several times between. When Mom needed dish soap from the market, when Mr. Robert wanted the paper, when anyone craved a soda or an apple, Ali and I volunteered to go. Mom eyed us as Ali lay on the bed to zip herself into her shorts, as I bobby pinned my hair, trying in vain to make it straight. While Ali lined her lips, I tore off T-shirts and cutoffs, trying to find the article of clothing that would accentuate my tiny breasts. “All that just for a loaf of
bread?
” Mom asked from the doorway, arching a critical brow. But she didn’t interfere with our flurry of vanity. After all, she was in no position to preach propriety, and Ali and I made the most of our mother’s guilt as we waltzed out the door.

Finally on the main drag, we heard Led Zeppelin blaring from the smoky recesses of pickups and custom vans. Sometimes the boys would honk and yell, making my stomach seize. But it was always Alison they wanted. “Hey, you, in the tight shorts,” they yelled. “Hey, foxy blondie—you want a ride in my boat? A drag on my roach? A spin on my wheels?” Freckled boys with burnt cheeks and wicked smiles; dark-skinned boys with arms draped across open windows; boys on dirt bikes, their tattoos and dust screaming out something I couldn’t fathom. They made my toes ache, my head spin. I watched Ali sauntering down the road on her tanned legs, riding fully on her fifteen-year-old hips; I was grateful and furious that they didn’t call for me.

“I bet you girls didn’t know that Indians lived here once, did you?” Mr. Robert offered over pasta at the lodge. “Old Chief Joseph lived in this valley with his tribe, until the land was taken by the government. There are statues of him all over this town.”

“Wow,” drawled Ali. “How fascinating.”

“Old Chief Joseph—he was a stubborn man. Didn’t want to leave this place. Haven’t you heard of the Chief Joseph Dance, Alison?”

“What’s that supposed to be?”

“All the kids up here do it. It’s a rage with those boys who follow you down the road.” He pushed his chair back and stood, then did a silly, jerking dance around the table, head bobbing, hands glued to his sides, chanting a mock-Indian rhythm—half Chief Joseph, half Steve Martin, with a dash of John Travolta. Mom and I were doubled over by the time he took his seat. Even Ali cracked a smile, holding her napkin over her face.