Stay With Me (23 page)

Clare doesn't think the cathedral is
her
home, exactly, and asks if she can walk me to school. I suspect that it's one morning she doesn't want to be alone in the office. We both stop on the sidewalk at exactly eight forty-six for the minute of silence, even though no one else does. I remember how much I wanted my mother that day. How I watched the news without moving but that it didn't sink in until that night.

Although we didn't know it then, more bad news was on the way. What did Rebecca think? I suppose she could have thought it was a good time to be leaving. After all, what a mess, but wasn't she curious to know how it would end? Especially with the
it
so big and impossible. I hug Clare before turning toward school.

"I could kill her for not being here," my sister says.

Well, yes. I suppose.

"And I miss Gyula," she says. "Still. I can't stop myself."

My hearts cracks a little for Raphael. Although if I love Eamon partly because of Rebecca, then it's only fair to see how my cousin has Clare for the exact same reason.

"You're allowed to miss him," I say.

Maybe great love is simply the love that fits. That would explain what happened to Julian and Janie. It wasn't ruined because it ended. It ended when they no longer fit each other. Da and my mother fit and so do Clare and Raphael. Gyula did fit with Clare once, but the shape of her life changed after Rebecca died.

"I'm not allowed to, actually," Clare says. "And I shouldn't."

Even I know that
should
rarely carries the day for this kind of thing.

"Gyula still thinks you have a date in November," I say. "You could call him."

"We'll see," Clare says. "Not a day for acting on how you feel."

I'm late for the memorial assembly because I stay outside to watch my fiercely beautiful sister walk off into her life of hotels, contracts, and decisions. I know that at some point she will find a way to handle it. I also know I would do anything—even get on a plane—to keep her from being hideously unhappy. So would Raphael and maybe even Gyula, if he knew how close he's come to forever blowing it.

A
S A SENIOR THIS YEAR,
I can design an independent study to be overseen by Mr. Nordman, our headmaster. I remember when I first heard about this option (from Ben, of course, who is going to build a computer) I thought,
No thanks.
But over the summer, one of the people I met through Charlotte thought that I should consider reading and studying
some plays from antiquity.
The recommendations were
Medea, Antigone,
and
Oedipus Rex,
and the idea was that if I could come up with set designs for these plays, I could come up with anything.

Of the three plays, only
Antigone
appealed to me. The first line is
O Sister ... dear, dear sister.
Antigone kills herself after being sentenced to death for trying to bury her brother's body. Her boyfriend and then his mother kill themselves from grief. At first I thought I liked the play because here were three suicides you could understand. You could even, given the way the play is written, support them.

But it was mostly that I had a great design idea for the tower and the battlefield, which I gave to Raphael for approval and then to Eamon for showing off. He thought I might want to read
Mourning Becomes Electra.

"It's kind of based
on Antigone,
" he said. "And it's the same guy who wrote
Ah, Wilderness,
which you've been carrying around all summer."

It's also endless (three plays in one) and, as plays go, not the easiest read in the world. As a result, it takes me longer than it should to put a proposal together. I make an appointment to see Mr. Nordman in his office, which smells slightly musty, in order to ask for an extension.

"You want to do an independent study?" he asks, sounding shocked. "Are you sure?"

"I think so," I say, wondering if I'm doomed to travel through life always considered some variation of less than bright.

What did Janie say? That my skin would go to hell and people would think I was stupid. Why didn't I ask her more about that?

"The deadline's next Friday. I'll give you an extra week," Mr. Nordman says. "Until October eleventh."

"Thanks," I say. "That's great."

"Leila, that'll be the Friday before Columbus Day," he says. "If you miss it, I can't make an exception."

I have a calendar. I know when the eleventh is. Rehearsals for
Ah, Wilderness
start on the following Tuesday, which is the fifteenth. The calendar is something I've never had trouble reading. I smile brightly over my wanting to smack him.

"Thank you."

Clare gives me a cell phone. It's on her account and she'll pay for it, within reason. We're having one of our home-alone nights even though it's not Thursday. She says Raphael has some things to do at home and that she's too tired to go to German class. We eat dinner and I spread my homework out across the floor. Eamon calls at around ten and we take our usual twenty minutes to say nothing more than hi, I'm thinking of you and I'll call again soon. We have this conversation at least twice a day, even on days we've seen each other.

Tonight I tell him I have a new phone and give him the number.

He writes it down, asking, "What did she do that for?"

"I don't know," I say. "Maybe she thinks I'll need one in California."

I like to tease him about this. He has such a heart attack at the idea of people thinking I will go where he wants me to. It's funny that he thinks I'll get into a specific college just because I want to.

"Good night, bunny," he says. "I'll talk to you soon."

"Night," I say, thinking that
soon
is my favorite word.

"I have meetings in Vienna at the end of next week," Clare says when I sit back down on the floor.

"Okay," I say.

"It means I won't be here when you meet with Mr. Nordman," she says. "I'm sorry."

"I'll be fine," I say. "You have to work."

"I might see Gyula," she says.

I'm not surprised. Or sad or pleased by this news. I don't think I'll be anything until I know how she is.

"You called him," I say.

"No, I haven't decided yet," she says. "If there's time and I want to, I'll take the early train to Budapest. Meet him for lunch."

"Raphael doesn't know," I say.

"There's nothing to know," she says. "I don't even know."

I think of saying that he won't mind, she needn't worry. But something in Clare's face—a combination of exhaustion and misery—reminds me of what she said during one of her weepy nights after the breakup.

"It's Rebecca," I say. "You need to find out if you left Gyula because of Rebecca."

"I just wish I knew if I love Raphael or miss her," Clare says.

"Both, maybe?"

"Yes, but..." she says, trailing off. "God, the thing I'll never forgive her for is how many of my thoughts start that way now."

I suppose that's why I want there to be a reason. So I can forgive her.

Wait, I think. Wait. How did we move from Clare to Rebecca. That's not good.

"When you see Gyula," I say, "you'll know. And then you'll do the right thing."

"I hope I'll know what the right thing is," Clare says.

I move my books to the coffee table and get a sheet out of the cabinet I made for her birthday.

"Is he your great love?" I ask, taking cushions from the couch. "Gyula, I mean."

Clare is quiet for a little bit, watching me make up her bed.

"I could tell you I don't believe in them," she says.

"You could," I say.

"Maybe it's all a question of timing and there's no >> one person.

If that were true, Raphael would be winning the timing contest and she would not be sitting here planning to see Gyula.

"I think Mama and Da had a great love," Clare says. "But what a mess."

"Me too," I say, unreasonably thrilled to find another believer in my favorite Abranel story. "I've always thought that too. And the mess doesn't change it."

The mess is the most important part, as it sent him off to fall in love with my mother. Which is, after all, how I am here.

"You know, before Rebecca died, I'd never have left him," Clare says. "Not even if he'd bought me six hotels. I'd have just laughed and told him no."

"So he is your great love," I say. "Or was."

Or would have been. It makes sense that the man who reminds me of a chandelier is going to beat out the man who reminds me of my family. But being the great love doesn't mean being the love who lasts. Da and Janie have shown me that. Raphael would happily take being the one who lasts. Only Clare can decide.

"Do you want me to come with you?" I ask. "To Vienna, I mean."

"Oh, no, sweetie," she says. "I'll be fine."

"I can ask for another extension," I say, not caring that I won't get it. "When you come back from Budapest, you shouldn't be alone."

"Listen, when I take you to Europe," she says, "it will be on a trip just for us. We'll eat sweets and look at old buildings until our eyes fall out."

I picture us in Sweden, visiting the university's library with our sister's name in it. In Vienna or Munich, checking up on Clare's work projects. Or in Barcelona, staying at the Vivfilli. We might go to Alexandria together and hunt for Da's lost city. I can even see us trying to find a city with no stories in it at all. If we're lucky we'll have time for each possible trip.

O
CTOBER ARRIVES.
From the moment I received Adrien Tilden's letter, I had imagined that this month would find me counting down the days until his return from London. Instead, two days go by before I think of my tentatively scheduled date to meet him. And then I only remember it because he sends me another note.

. Dear Leila, My return home has been unexpectedly delayed. Scott and I will remain in London until December, possibly February. I hope we can meet then and talk about your sister. I have, of course, endlessly reviewed my last meeting with R. Obviously, I wish I'd known it would be the last, for it was just a quick cup of coffee to catch up on trivial news. I remember telling Scott that she looked beautiful and for that I am grateful. My best to you and your family. Cordially, Adrien.

I touch where he has written
R.
I want more than anything to believe that his abbreviation of my sister's name is proof that he knew her in some special way. And that what he thinks is trivial might be something else entirely. I suppose that Scott might be Adrien's boyfriend (maybe even the man I saw him with at Acca), but who knows. If Adrien were gay, would that tell me more or less about Rebecca?

December, I think. I'll know in December. Or February. What exactly I'll know seems as vague as my new deadline. I tuck the note away with the first one and then find that I hardly think of it.

It must be that my thoughts are mostly taken up with worrying about Clare's upcoming trip to see Gyula. And with Eamon's inviting me to his father's beach house for the first weekend of the month.

Raphael says I can go, but Clare says I have to call my parents to ask.

"Mom already knows we're dating," I say.

I loved how she paused slightly before saying,
Yes, I thought that might happen
. From across the ocean and over the phone, I could feel her belief in my ability to know what was right. We stayed on the phone for another half-hour discussing obvious details, but nothing was as important as her initial response.

"I know she does," Clare says. "But a weekend trip is something I want them to sign off on."

Da answers. Mom's out; she stayed late at the hospital. Instead of leaving a message for her to call, I decide to ask him.

"Clare hasn't said no, has she?" he asks.

"She says I need your permission."

"Those days are rapidly ending," Da says. "I gather you like this boy."

"He's thirty-one," I say. "And I do."

"Go with Eamon, have a good time," Da says. "Someday you'll tell me all about it."

I see that when she died, the gaping hole Rebecca made in Da's life was one that reached into his future. Whatever plans he'd once had included all of us telling him some version of how we were. Of what our lives were like.

"Someday," I say. "I promise."

It's a really nice weekend. Mr. Greyhalle tells me that even if I'm young enough to be doing homework, I have to call him Theodore. That he went to Stanford and can tell me that California is a great place to live.

"Dad," Eamon says. "Don't."

I spend most of my time in the small room Eamon has taken over for his computer and scripts. Its sparseness—table, chair, shelves, one lamp—and its view of the ocean make it soothing and disturbing all at once. The way I have seen work itself to be.

Once back home, I finally tell Eamon what is being said about me at school. It's the night before my proposal is due, and I'm practicing the presentation. Apparently, I also find it easier to talk about myself if it's buried in and around work. Schoolwork, in this case, but that's what I have. I somewhat haltingly get out that people seem to think there's something deeply wrong with me. Wrong because of Da's age.

"They're really scraping for dirt," Eamon says. "It's been that bad?"

"Well, the girls all think I'm incredibly cool," I say.

"Cool doesn't sound so awful," he says. "Boys the ones giving you a problem?"

"Other than Ben, not the ones my age," I say. "But the theory about Da is floating around."

"And you're hearing it," he says, putting his arms around me.

"Yeah, you could say that."

I lean against him so his body can do that trick where it absorbs all the bad stuff.

"It's kind of playing out the opposite for me," he says. "The men all think I've done something brilliant and, except for Brett, the women think I should be shot."

I laugh because of the image he presents. A bunch of men sitting around thinking,
Hey, way to go, a blonde teenager,
and a bunch of women thinking that Eamon is also thinking that.