Falling Under (20 page)
He does not want to be yours, though, and soon you go back to high school and he will remember to think of you as a child and what you both had tonight might slip away.
How will you bear it?
“Please,” you whisper to the night. “Please let me have this.”
6
“It’s a great school, but don’t ask them about me!” Caleb says when you mention the Ontario College of Art. “I taught there for a couple of years.”
“It didn’t work out?”
He shrugs and grins at you across the table.
“Students complained that I was surly and uncommu- nicative,” he says, “and I didn’t do so well with the faculty politics.”
You’re out for dinner—a date—progress!
Caleb has put on pants and a shirt with buttons instead of his usual jeans and T-shirt and he looks handsome in his brooding, pale-faced way. You are wearing a dress, high heels and lipstick. You sip at your glass of red wine.
You laugh. “Surly, huh? Those students didn’t know what they were missing.”
“Not everyone has your fine appreciation of character, Sixteen.”
Now and then he reaches across to touch your hand, your face, or your knee. For the first time you talk about books, music and movies. Thank goodness Bernadette has been dragging you out to the rep cinemas, because you actually know who Bertolucci is and you’ve seen
La Dolce Vita
and
La Femme Nikita,
not to mention every film Woody Allen has ever made. Caleb chuckles and shakes his head and says you are a wonder.
He orders you an Irish coffee and then takes both your hands in his and leans over to kiss you. Nothing in your life has ever been this perfect.
He orders dessert and when it comes he takes the spoon and taps the surface until it breaks open and then dips the spoon in and lifts it to your mouth. You close your eyes to taste it, then open them to tell him it’s wonderful...
and everything in you freezes,
because behind him stands your mother.
6
Huge love floods you and you want to leap out of your chair and into her arms. What a fool you were to think you could be safe from this love—you never will be. And love is what you see in her eyes too, and a need as huge as your own.
Then her face changes. Out goes the love and in comes the face that could freeze oceans, the voice that is like a whip cracking.
“What is it you think you’re doing?” she says.
She is so damned scary like this. “Hi, Mom.”
“Where is your father?”
“At home I think. Mom, uh, this is my... this is my friend, Caleb White. Caleb, my mom.”
He clears his throat, looks from you to her and back, then reaches out to shake her hand.
“Hello, Mrs.... Ms.... ahem . . . nice to meet you.” It doesn’t go so well.
6
“She didn’t mean it,” you tell him later. “And she can’t do anything to you. She wouldn’t even know how to find us.”
“You’re under eighteen and you told her my last name,” he says.
“Oh. Oops.” He sighs.
“She won’t sue you or whatever it was she threatened.
And I don’t care what she thinks.”
“This is going to cause trouble for your dad, too, isn’t it?” he says.
You look down. “She’ll just call him and scream a little.” “And what about your friend? The one you told him
you’re staying with?”
You bite your lip. “I’ll handle it.”
He holds your head to his chest as you fall asleep and makes love to you in the morning.
It’s Labor Day weekend and he breaks his studio sched- ule and takes you out for brunch and to the Ex where he rides the Octopus and the bumper cars and shares cotton candy
with you. At night you drink cold beer and he rubs aloe vera on your sunburned shoulders and cheeks.
On the morning of September 5th he gives you a gift—his sketches of you.
When you ask why he’s giving them, he says, “Shh.” He kisses you and makes love to you and says your name for the first time. He says it over and over.
You wake in the morning and see him dressed and sitting at the foot of the bed. The expression on his face jolts you awake.
You sit up. “What is it?”
“I’m not the guy, Sixteen,” he says. “What guy?”
“The guy who can...I can’t do this,” he says. “We can’t do this.”
You reach for him, but he moves away.
“Let’s be honest,” he says. “Long term, this is not going to work.”
“Yes it is! It can, I promise you—”
“You can’t hide out here forever. You need to finish high school and then study art somewhere and you need to be with people your own age and not be hiding from your family, no matter how fucked up they are.”
“No.”
“And you’ll leave me, Sixteen, someday you’ll leave me. I’m not that great a guy and you’re practically a kid, and I’m old and cranky and jaded—”
“I’m jaded too!” you insist. “We’re the same.”
“You’ll leave me, or I’ll leave you. We’ll get bored of the sex and you’ll figure out that you should have made up with your mother and finished school. You’ll resent me.”
You will not cry. You will not cry.
“I can learn everything I need to about art from you. That’s the only education I need if I’m going to be an artist. And I won’t be... we won’t be like that because we . . .” You stop as you feel your voice breaking and then continue, even with the tears running down your face. “Caleb, we love each other, you know we do. And she can threaten all she wants—I’ll fight. I’m willing to fight. And besides, in a year I’ll be eighteen and I can do whatever I want.”
He looks down at his lap and you see his Adam’s apple bob down and up again.
“Mara,” he says, “you’re young and you’re brave, but you haven’t lived as long as I have. You don’t know how it feels to be alienated from your family and up against no money and no success while a bunch of talentless fucks are out there selling crap for six thousand bucks a pop.You think you’re brave enough, but your heart can break more times than you realize.”
“I do know that,” you whisper. “I know that already, that’s why we understand each other.”
“Pack your stuff, Sixteen, and then I’m taking you home to your mother.”
“No.”
“Let me be clear, I don’t want this. I don’t know if it’s the right thing, or the wrong thing, but I don’t want the mess. All I want, and what I
need
, is to work every day without the distraction of you, and the baggage that comes with you. I’m sorry.”
“No.”
“Better to have it hurt now and get it over.”
He leaves you weeping on the bed and goes to pack your stuff. When your artwork, your toothbrush, your spare shorts, T-shirts, sandals and toiletries are collected by the door, he comes back to the bed with last night’s clothes and forces you to put them on, while you, snotty and blubbering, nonetheless make a final attempt to seduce him.
He holds you tight and you feel him shaking.
“You don’t want this,” you say. “You love me and I know it—you don’t want to do this. Please.”
“Shhh.”
6
The sight of you, crumpled and miserable on her doorstep, brings out Mom’s softer side, and she gently helps you inside. She runs you a bath.
“I know it hurts, sweetie, but you’ll get over it,” she says. “
You
never did,” you say.
“Pardon me?” “From Dad.”
“I certainly did.”
“Sure. That’s why you still hate his guts. That’s why you never dated again.”
Her face goes blank and she leaves you in the bathroom.
You feel like dying. You don’t even have the heart to hate her for causing you to lose the only man you’ll ever love.
6
Senior year is supposed to be a big deal, but when school starts you can hardly bring yourself to attend.
A week in, you detour on your way home, and knock on Caleb’s door.
He opens it and looks at you and you smile, trying to be brave and grown up and not a sniveling idiot like you were when he saw you last.
He has dark circles under his eyes and he hasn’t shaved since you left.
“Can we be friends?” you say. “I’d like to be friends.” He shrugs, gestures you inside and shuts the door be-
hind you.
“Can I hug you?” you say. “Friends hug. And you look like you need a hug.”
You don’t wait for him to respond, but put your arms around him and pull him in.
He says “Mm,” and hugs back.
And after a few moments neither of you has let go. He presses himself closer and you think, “Ha.”
And very soon you are without your pants and up against the door with his hands up your shirt and the door clattering rhythmically in its jamb.
September to November, you knock on his door in the late afternoons and every time you come together like it will be the last time.
You never stay long. You never ask him to talk.
You offer yourself and take what he gives and then go home. You spend your nights aching and wake up lonely in your mother’s house and go to school and grit your teeth and sneak away with Bernadette at recess and smoke and talk
about the bullshit of it all.
Your midterm report card is not great. Your life is not great.
But all you have to do is get through this year and create a portfolio and get into art school and then you’ll be eighteen. And he will still want you and finally let you move in with him and there will be nothing anyone can do or say. It’s not the best plan, but it’s the best you can come up with.You will wait it out.
Only, one day he is not there.
And when you try your key in the lock, it doesn’t work.
And when you call from a pay phone, the number has been disconnected.
You stand across from his building and stare up at his windows but dusk falls and no lights go on.
At home, when you take your books out of your bag, you find an envelope with your name on it. Inside it is a note, a drawing of your face and a photo of Caleb that he used to have on his fridge.
On the back of the photo, it says:
Mara—you said you liked this picture. Keep it. C.
And the note says:
I’ve gone away, maybe for good, and a friend is sublet- ting my place, so you won’t find me there.
I’m sorry.
Love, if that’s what it is, just doesn’t conquer all, Sixteen. Lust conquers even less.
Work hard and become brilliant. Try to forget about me. C.W.
H
ugo pulls my hand into his coat pocket to keep it warm. The side streets of Cabbagetown are quiet and dim, people’s tiny yards perfectly manicured even at this time of year.
We stroll toward Riverdale Park and Pollock does his business on the way. Once there, Hugo produces a glow-in- the-dark ball, unleashes Pollock and throws it. He shouts encouragement and the little dog dashes after the ball and then brings it back, tail wagging furiously, and waits for an- other throw. The game lasts until Pollock flops down a few feet away, his tongue lolling out the side of his mouth.
“Very cute,” I say.
“Pollock?” Hugo beams. “Yeah, he’s not bad.” “And you,” I say. “The two of you together.” He smiles and ducks his head, which is also cute.
“Thanks for giving me time to recover,” I say, and he nods like it was no big deal.
We collect Pollock and start walking back toward Hugo’s. “So . . .” he says.
“Yes?”
“Was that, ah, good crying or bad crying?”
I bump his hip with mine and he gives a surprised yelp. “Good then? Good-ish?” he says, bumping me back. “Yeah,” I say, “good-ish.”
“Okay,” he says. “Hugo?”
“Yeah?”
“Can we sit down for a sec?” I gesture toward a bench at the edge of the park and we walk to it and sit. Pollock sniffs at the leaves under the bench, finds a stick, and deposits himself at Hugo’s feet to chew on it.
Brave and beloved, he called me. I don’t feel so brave, but I have to try.
“What’s up?” he asks, still holding my hand inside his pocket.
“Uh, not to lay anything heavy on you but... my last boyfriend.. .”
“Yeah?”
“He died.”
Hugo gets very still for a moment and then goes, “Whoa.” “Yeah.”
“Jesus, Mara!” he says. “Jeez. No wonder. My God.” “Sorry to...I know it’s . . .” I trail off, not sure what else
to say.
“Listen, don’t be sorry. I’m glad you told me,” he says. “You’ve got nothing to be sorry about.”
I squeeze his hand.
“Ah... when did it...I mean, you don’t have to talk about it but.. .”
“Five years ago. It was... there was an accident.” “Wow.”
“His name was Lucas.”
We sit and watch Orion rising up over the restored hundred-year-old row houses across the street. On the cor- ner is an old-fashioned General Store and I wonder if Hugo and I might come here in the summer and buy ice cream cones, like normal, happy people who are in love. Then I wonder if Lucas can see me, if saying his name out loud brings him closer. I wonder what he would think of me now, sitting with Hugo and trying to envision a future. I wonder whether I will ever breathe air that is clear of his ghost.
“So, your reticence about dating,” Hugo says, “your fear of getting involved... that’s the reason.”
“I guess so. But it was a long time ago. I should be over it.”
“The soul doesn’t experience time the same way the mind does,” he says. “Have you had grief counseling or anything?”
“Um, sort of.”
“Sort of?”
“I’ve... talked to people.” Bernadette, my dad... “And . . .?”
“And talking helps to a point and then it’s about... time, I guess,” I say. “Time and moving forward. And I’m doing that.”
“Hm.”
“I’ll be honest, the counseling route didn’t work that well for me. It was pretty short-lived,” I admit.
“Well, it’s not for everyone,” he says.
“No.”
Pollock is snuffling at our feet and looking bored, so we get up from the bench and stroll back to Hugo’s.
Back inside, Hugo leads me to the couch. He takes my hands and rubs them between his to warm them.
“Thanks,” I say. He gives me a look. “What?”
“I’m just digesting what you told me. You’re a survivor.” I humph and look away.
“You are,” he says, and then grins. “You’re scrappy.” “Scrappy?”