Desire Lines

DESIRE LINES

            
A NOVEL

CHRISTINA BAKER KLINE

FOR MY PARENTS—
path seekers and finders

Contents

Cover

Title Page

PART ONE HOMECOMING

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

PART TWO MEMORY

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

PART THREE REUNION

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

PART FOUR RELEASE

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

EPILOGUE

PROLOGUE

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

ALSO BY CHRISTINA BAKER KLINE

Copyright

About the Publisher

PART ONE
HOMECOMING

Chapter 1

S
itting in a window seat near the front of the tiny plane, staring out at the evergreen expanse below, Kathryn twists the gold ring on her finger. She eases the ring off, feeling the cool weight of it in her hand, and then slips it back on. She holds her fingers out to look at it. Turning her wrist, she glances at her watch. Then she leans back and closes her eyes. The plane will be landing in fifteen minutes. In half an hour she’ll be home.

The night before, in Charlottesville, Virginia, sitting on the floor of her almost-empty apartment and trying to stuff every piece of clothing she owned into two suitcases, Kathryn had heard a knock at the door and then, suddenly, there was Paul. She hadn’t seen him in almost a month. He looked different; his dark curly hair was clipped close to his head, like a shorn sheep. When they were together, he’d always worn it long. Looking around at the bare walls and the clothing stacked in piles on the floor, he held up an envelope for her to see. “Just in time, I guess,” he said.

She skimmed the divorce papers quickly, straining to make out the fine print in the light from the single bulb overhead. Paul leaned against the wall, watching her. When she got to the last page, Kathryn could see that he had already signed it, and something about seeing his signature like that, firm and steady and sure, made a lump form in her throat.

“Listen, Kat,” he said, seeing her hesitate. “We don’t have to do this now.”

“No. It’s fine. Just give me a second, all right?”

“I know this is a busy time. You’ve got a lot to do, you’re trying to leave. Why don’t you send the papers to me when you get there? It’ll just take a little longer.”

“It’s okay,” she said, a bit more sharply than she intended. He fell silent. She signed the papers carefully, spelling out her name in a distinct, mannered script that bore scant resemblance to her usual scrawl. Then she folded the papers and handed them back.

“How about a hug, for old times’ sake?” he asked, holding his arms out.

She shook her head. “I don’t think so.”

He nodded, joining his hands and bending them back at the knuckles. “Sure. I understand.”

She bit her lip, and he looked at her closely. She could tell he was trying to see if she was going to cry. Then he smiled. “You’re all right, you know that?”

“Yeah,” she said, “I’m all right.”

After he left she got the last of the Dickel from the cabinet above the fridge and slid down against the wall. It had been almost two years to the day since she and Paul were married. They had already been living together, in this apartment, for several months, and Kathryn remembers the strangeness of coming back after the ceremony to dishes in the sink and their unmade bed. They had wanted to pretend that getting married didn’t change anything, but she knew in her bones that wasn’t true. The stakes were higher now; they had made promises, they had expectations.
Even the apartment seemed different to her—smaller, somehow, as if the rooms had shrunk.

Paul had insisted on carrying Kathryn, in her white slip dress, in the driving rain, up the crumbling flagstone walkway and the creaky front steps and over the threshold. By the time he staggered through the door and collapsed on the couch, still holding her in his arms, they were both soaking wet.

Gazing down at her, he’d brushed wet confetti out of her hair.” ‘Birth, and copulation, and death,’” he said.” ‘That’s all the facts when you come to brass tacks.’”

She frowned. “Are you quoting Eliot again?”

“Yes,” he said.

She looked into his eyes.” ‘I am measuring out my life with coffee spoons.’”

“‘Have measured.’ That’s the only line you can remember, isn’t it?” He laughed.

She nodded. “But I know all the words to ‘Paradise by the Dashboard Light’”

They imagined it would be a story to tell their kids someday—how they met in graduate school and against their own better judgment fell in love. They were so different: He was a born-and-bred New England WASP, she a scrappy nonpracticing Catholic. He was focused and ambitious, she wasn’t certain what she wanted to do. He liked to stay out late in jazz clubs, she was happy at home curled up with a book. But they believed there was enough to make it work. They both loved Monty Python and rice pudding; they shared a similarly deadpan sense of humor. And when she told him about what had happened to her best friend, how she had disappeared on the night of their high school graduation and never returned, he offered a story of his own, about a friend from college who was hitchhiking in a snowstorm and was blindsided by a truck. “He’s still in a coma, so we can’t even mourn,” Paul said. “He’s just—gone. It’s like he disappeared; I’ve always thought of it that way.”

It had seemed to Kathryn that Paul was the only one who really understood. But later, after things began to fall apart, she realized that, in truth, he didn’t. He was impatient with her moodiness; he couldn’t see the point of dwelling on the past. “There’s nothing you can do. You’ve got to let it go and move on,” he insisted. She tried, but it was no good. In the end it was easier to let go of the marriage than let go of the melancholy that grew slowly inside her like a tumor, obliterating everything else.

Alone in the empty apartment now, she got up and put Bob Dylan on the portable CD player. With the first strains of “Tangled Up in Blue,” Paul’s favorite song, the tears she’d been holding back rose in her like an undercurrent, dredging up the pain that had settled just below the surface.

When she couldn’t cry anymore she wandered into the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. Her large, gray-blue eyes, usually her best feature, were swollen and bloodshot, and her light-brown hair hung limply past her chin. She’d lost weight in the past few months; her face was all angles and hollows. Plenty of guys over the years had told her she was beautiful, but she’d always dismissed it as romantic hyperbole. “You are beautiful, but not in a conventional way,” Paul said once, with his usual blunt candor. “There’s something … arresting about you.”
Arrested,
perhaps, Kathryn thought, studying her reflection, but not arresting. Not anymore.

On an impulse she opened the medicine cabinet and rummaged through it, looking for the box of hair color she’d bought a few weeks before on a special promotion. “Autumn Glow.” She studied the woman on the front of the box, her auburn hair smooth and shining, eyes sparkling, mouth wide in a smile. Then Kathryn opened the box and pulled out the instructions, ripping the plastic gloves off the paper, and lined up the little bottles filled with potions on the shelf above the sink.

The next morning, boarding the plane, Kathryn was numb, hungover,
drained of emotion. The chemical smell of her newly dyed hair was making her nauseous. As the plane lifted into the air, she watched Charlottesville recede into the larger patches of landscape, and it occurred to her that she was leaving not only a marriage but a definable identity. She might be going home, but it felt to her as if she was heading into new and unfamiliar territory. She didn’t have a compass, a map, or even a decent sense of direction. She wasn’t certain she would recognize herself.

AS THE PLANE
starts its slow descent into Bangor, Kathryn feels a tap on her right shoulder. She turns to look. Through a crack between the narrow seats she can see a vaguely familiar man behind her.

“Kathryn?”

She nods.

“Jeez. This whole flight I’ve wondered if it was you,” he says in a heavy Maine accent. When he smiles, the hard brightness of his teeth filling the bottom half of his face, she has a vague memory of high school.
High school.
He has wide hazel eyes, a straight nose and firm jaw, sandy brown hair. An athlete, she decides. Trip … Skip … Flip …

“Chip Sanborn,” he says, offering his hand over the seat. “It’s been ten years—can’t blame you for forgetting.”

“No, no, I knew. Of course,” she murmurs quickly. His hand is as thick and smooth as a baseball mitt. “Chip Sanborn. How are you?”

He nods. “Couldn’t be better.”

“That’s great.”

“How about yourself?”

“Oh, I’m fine.”

The final word lingers in the air, and he pauses for a moment, waiting to see if she’ll continue. When she doesn’t, he asks, “So what’re you up to these days?”

Kathryn glances at the woman sitting beside Chip, who is studiously
perusing the in-flight magazine. “I’m a reporter,” she says. “Freelance.” It isn’t exactly true; she was an arts editor for a small weekly paper in Charlottesville, but she quit that job three weeks ago. “What about you?”

“I’m running my dad’s paint store. Actually, we’re calling it a home decorating center now. I was just at a home show in Atlantic City. People are really into fixing up their houses these days. Everybody’s getting married, having babies—you know, the whole nineties nesting thing.”

“Yeah,” she says, “I read about it.”

“So how’s your brother doing?”

All at once, Kathryn remembers who Chip Sanborn was: the star of the Bangor High basketball team. Her brother, Josh, was a freshman when she and Chip were seniors. Josh sat on the bench for three miserable years. “He’s fine,” she says. “Josh.”

“Josh. Still playing b-ball?”

“Um, not much, I don’t think. He’s living in New York, working as a mortgage broker. I don’t see him very often. His hours are crazy.”

“Good for him,” says Chip. “Smart kid.”

Kathryn smiles. She’s beginning to feel as if she’s making polite conversation with an uncle. “Yeah, well … We’ll be landing soon, I guess. I’d probably better …” She makes a motion of turning around.

“I heard you got married a while back,” he says. “To a grad student or something.”

She feels her face flush. “Um-hmm. What about you?”

“Oh, me and Donna’ve been married for—jeez, it’s almost six years.”

“Wow,” she says.

“You know Donna,” he says, leaning forward. “Donna Murphy. She was in our class.”

A memory flashes through Kathryn’s head: a snowy Friday in 1986, a sweaty gymnasium, seconds to spare; Chip, star of the team, scoring the winning basket—
swish!—
against Bangor’s rival, South Portland. Donna, the shortest one on the cheerleading squad, the one who always stands at the top of the human pyramid at pep rallies, rushes onto the
court in front of the roaring crowd and smothers him with maroon-and-white pompons as he twirls her in the air. “Yes,” Kathryn says. “How is she?”