I don‘t remember what else we talked about. But we sat together in the cold for almost two more hours: him in his sweatshirt, me wrapped in a warm coat that smelled of him. We were out there long enough that when I looked up, the waitress was eyeing us through the restaurant‘s tinted windows.
Like we were the ones in glass rather than the other way around.
31: a
Mr. Anderson dropped me back at the McMansion a little before 7 P.M. The kitchen‘s handset display said I‘d missed two calls, both from numbers I recognized.
First message: Jenna? It’s Evan. I, uh, I got your message and . . . well, I could be wrong, but I’m not aware that we’re doing anything more for Nate. So . . . (Pause.) I don’t know what he’s talking about. Unless he and your mom . . . (Pause.) I’ll give his publicist a call and see what the story is. Just . . . this isn’t worth bothering your mom about. Okay?
Bye, honey.
Second message: Hi, sweetie, it’s your mom. Listen, we’ve decided to come back Saturday night. I know you don’t mind. What teenager wouldn’t kill for a week off from their parents? (Pause.) Anyway, have a good week. Love you.
Click. Dial tone.
Mom was right, too: I didn‘t mind. I didn‘t care.
At. All.
I tuned my radio to a station Mr. Anderson liked, the one we‘d listened to in his car.
They were playing a Bach fugue. I thought about how Mr. Anderson might be listening to the same thing at this very moment. So we were kind of enjoying the music together, even if we weren‘t in the same room, and that felt good.
As I listened, I unfolded the papers I‘d palmed from his pocket. He‘d written them in real ink—with a fountain pen, I thought. There was something about the shape of the letters that reminded me of calligraphy and was so different from his familiar scrawl which I‘d seen a hundred times on the blackboard or graded papers. It was somehow intimate and thrilling to imagine him forming each letter with exquisite care. One was obviously a grocery list: eggs, strawberries, milk, flour, everything he‘d need for pancakes. Which meant he‘d been thinking of me when he wrote it. That felt . . . private and special, like this was a note only I would understand.
The other note was very brief: a single letter and then a word.
J.
And: lover.
I read it twice over but knew there was no mistake. You‘d have to be brain-dead not to get it.
I was J. And lover was ...
This was about me, Bob.
It was about me.
32: a
By Friday, it felt as if Mr. Anderson and I had been together for months instead of only a few days. We had a routine going: run in the mornings, then a shower and breakfast.
(Mr. Anderson said we should stay away from Adelaide‘s—not because we were doing anything wrong, but who needed the headaches?) I didn‘t mind. Making food together felt homey, like I belonged. He showed me how to make omelets and I showed him bangers and mash. We talked a lot, mainly about him, his family. He didn‘t ask a lot of questions about where I‘d been last year or what Psycho-Dad had meant, and that was good because it was like we had this unspoken agreement. If I wanted to talk, I could. If I didn‘t, fine.
On the other hand, there was stuff about him we didn‘t touch—his marriage, his wife. I really wanted to know and then again, I really didn‘t because, honestly? Talking about her would remind him that he probably didn‘t need a friend like me.
Afterward, we‘d go to a museum and then lunch and then either another museum or maybe we‘d go for a walk and then have coffee and pastries—like they did in Europe, Mr.
Anderson said. When he was a kid, his family went all over, and what he remembered most was how people there took their time and enjoyed life. In between his junior and senior years in college, his father had let him spend an entire summer in Italy, probably to make up for yanking him out of Stanford. Mr. Anderson said the best part of the day was late afternoon when you could sit at a little café in a piazza just about anywhere and have a grappa or cup of coffee and pastry and people-watch, maybe make up stories about them.
Like Mr. Anderson would spot a guy and think that maybe he was waiting for his girlfriend because he kept checking his watch. He said he could tell which couples were going to stay together because of how close they sat and if they ate off each other‘s plate, which he said you only did when you really trusted someone. He really paid attention to things like that.
After coffee, we might go back to his house and walk around the lake, which I really liked because it was so peaceful, like the lake and his house and land were a whole other world for just the two of us. I loved how the landscape changed at dusk, the woods and fields graying out, the air smelling suddenly sharp and wet and cold enough so it was only natural for us to walk closer together, our arms unexpectedly brushing in a way that made it hard to breathe. The world would fade; the chatter of the birds drop away; and the day—and what I was in the light—slide toward night.
Who we were fell away, too, until we were like shades, ghosts of the people we‘d been. Sometimes we stood on the opposite shore and looked back at his house, its windows fired with yellow light so it glittered on the mirror of the water.
And once Mr. Anderson said, very softly, ―It‘s like looking at another country from very far away.‖
I wasn‘t sure what he meant, but he sounded sad again, like the day he talked about how people can drown and you would never know by looking because things seem fine. I wanted to reach out and take his hand, let him know I was there to help. Of course, I didn‘t.
But I loved it all, everything, every moment. I loved that Mr. Anderson always had fresh towels for me and gave me one of his old robes. He always let me shower first. Then, while he cleaned up, I would wrap myself in that robe and lie on the bed in the guest room and listen to the distant rush and thrum of the water. Sometimes I let myself imagine what he might look like, his muscles and bronzed skin wet and glistening. I never quite let myself form a whole picture, if you know what I mean. But . . . almost. Enough that the robe felt almost unbearable against my skin. Enough that I imagined walking into his bathroom and letting the robe slip from my shoulders and then, somehow, he would see me and only stand there and let me look at him as the water flowed around his body and there was a mirror and my skin was flawless and white, no scars, no grafts and then I would step under the water with him and then . . .
And then, for a few seconds—in my mind—I was almost beautiful.
Of course, I would never do that. It could never happen anyway and besides, it would be wrong. He was married. He had a wife and, maybe, a baby. Mr. Anderson was my friend. I tried to tell myself that he cared about me the way a teacher would who was going out of his way to make the crazy kid feel good about herself. Such a friendship didn‘t come around very often. I had to be careful not to wreck this.
Still, every night, I unfolded that scrap of paper and reread the words Mr. Anderson had written that gave the lie, and I wondered if he was awake in a tangle of sheets, staring up at shadows, thinking of me.
And then it was Saturday.
When my alarm went off and classical music swelled, the first thing I thought was: This is our last day. By this time tomorrow, nothing will be the same.
I almost didn‘t want to get out of bed. What was the point? Tonight, my parents would come back. Monday, I would start school again. I would go back to being me. I would avoid the cafeteria; Danielle would continue to hate me; David might drop by the library again, but . . . well, whatever. Of course, I‘d see Mr. Anderson again. Friday, he‘d asked, one more time, if I would please be his TA, although he‘d been smiling. He knew he‘d won that particular battle just as I knew I‘d show for cross-country practice on Monday afternoon if for no other reason than to be near him.
But I knew nothing would be the same. There would be other kids, more and different demands on his attention. His wife would come home, eventually. When that happened, I doubted he‘d be inviting me back for breakfast—if we still ran together at all.
As soon as I left this afternoon, he‘d strip the sheets from the guest bed even though I‘d never slept there and toss the towels in the wash, maybe even that old robe. By this evening, my presence would be erased from his house.
But I’m here now. She isn’t. School’s not. Don’t ruin this.
The weather had been turning steadily colder all week and I could feel it in the McMansion now. It was still dark when I slid from beneath my blankets, which made it feel ten times colder. Walking on my bedroom floor was like crossing an ice rink in my bare feet and I shivered as I pulled on my cold-weather running gear. Downstairs, I made oatmeal in the microwave, sliced up a banana and threw in a handful of almonds, and then washed it all down with a cup of tea I made as hot as I could stand, just to have something warm to hold in my hands. I felt stiff and creaky and angry, like Saturday had rolled around just to piss me off.
I tuned to an NPR station on the way over. Usually that early, they played something easy on the ears—Mozart, Bach, Vivaldi. What came out of the speakers was movie music, violins and clean high brass. I recognized it immediately as Hansen‘s symphony, the part they‘d used right after Ripley blasts the alien into space. Which is a very weird scene, actually, because she‘s singing to the monster the whole time: You are my lucky star, lucky, lucky, lucky. Almost like the alien‘s her, welll. . . her lover. (Watch it again, Bob. Listen to the way Ripley‘s breathing, too. It‘s kind of kinky.) The piece ended by the time I was turning off onto Mr. Anderson‘s road. I didn‘t know if the music was a good or bad omen. I was afraid to think what it was.
We were doing a long run that morning, fifteen miles, and already planned to drive to the Lake Michigan shore to follow a route Mr. Anderson had mapped.
―But I don‘t like the look of those clouds,‖ he said. ―Change of plans. Let‘s run from here, but we‘ll go on this trail I know that winds north of the park. That way, if it storms, we‘ll have more protection. We‘ll still get wet, but just not as wet.‖
