Where You End (18 page)

“You already know,” I say.

“Obviously not.”

“You know how I feel about you.”

“I don't. That's why I'm here. That and my camera.”

“Look, I don't want to hurt you.”

“You should just go get my camera.”

“Adam.”

“You still can't answer the question.”

“What question?”

“Forget it, Miriam.”

“Adam, did you take a key?”

“What are you talking about?”

“Adam?”

“What?”

“I told them it was me. I told them about pushing the sculpture.”

His eyes narrow right before they get huge, with something that looks horribly like surprise, and that's when I realize he didn't know. When he said he'd known from the beginning, he wasn't talking about Picasso. He was talking about me.

“You didn't know … ” I whisper.

He rubs his eyes and shakes his head.

“Can you say something?” I ask.

“You've changed,” he says. “You gave up.”

Just like that. The unadulterated truth only your best friend is allowed to tell.

thirty-nine

you are scaring me and you have my camera.

forty

My parents are sitting on my carpet, surrounded by piles of children's books of all shapes, colors and sizes. There are two cardboard boxes next to the bed. They must've gotten them down from the attic. I recognize some of the books. Others, I can't remember at all. My mother's long hair is loose now, still damp from the shower. My father is wearing his sweatpants. He balances a book on his crossed legs and she leans forward to look at the pictures. The room is silent except for their quiet smiles and the pages turning.

I have no idea if they heard any of my conversation with Adam, and I feel weak at the thought of having one more secret. I tiptoe past my room into theirs, where the bed is still unmade and the trails of their little worlds are everywhere. My father's change is on the night table, along with a few gum wrappers and the leather case for his glasses. My mom's sweatshirt from last night is on their beat-up yellow armchair, which they bought when they met and have moved to every house since.

I haven't been in this room in ages. I can sleep through the night now. Her clothes are too big for me, her shoes too small, my nightmares impossible to rub away. I have had no reason to come here in years.

I sit in the chair and scan the room for clues. I want to know what the difference is, the real difference between them and me. The car keys are on the old dresser. Her bra is plainer than mine, a little padded, less girly. He is reading three books; one is about Lincoln. Her
New Yorker
magazine is open. Her hand lotion is by the lamp. On the way to their bathroom, a pair of striped boxers on the floor makes me wince, until I remember he uses them to blow his trombone-nose in the morning.

The mirror is still a little foggy. There is only one sink, but an imaginary line divides it. On one side: shaving creams, a real razor, bright green mouthwash and a crusty soap. On the other: tubs of creams with the names of exotic flowers, fancy muds and minerals—a red toothbrush and a green toothbrush, both frayed and slightly yellow. I make room in the mirror for my face, which looks puffy and dry. I stretch the skin to make my eyes droop, and examine the blackheads on my nose. When I pull back my bangs, my forehead looks huge.

I pick a tub and twist the top to find a thick gray paste.
Apply on clear skin with your fingertips in a circular motion.
I splash my face with warm water, wipe it clean, and scoop the clay with my index finger. I paint a line down the bridge of my nose, two across my cheeks, another above my lip, on my chin, under the bangs, until my face is the
color of the Dead Sea. Down the hall, they are talking
about my old books. I wash the mask off with warm water and walk over. The door is still open.

My mother looks up first.

“We're reading your books,” she says.

I smile a tired smile. My face feels tingly and new.

“I can't believe we still have all of these. We found them all in the attic.”

“Oh,” I say.

Mom closes the book she was reading and keeps a finger on the page to hold her place. “Is everything okay with Adam?” she asks.

I sigh. “Not really.”

She pats the carpet next to her and my father scoots to make room between them. There is something about warmth that makes us all weak, and something about mothers. If I touch her, or if I let her touch me, that warmth will trick me into feeling safe, and I will talk. And if I talk, I might say what I actually mean. And if I say what I mean, I will know what that is, but I will not know how to forget it. She leaves her hand on the floor to reserve my spot, and my father waits patiently right next to her.

“I lost everything,” I say. “It's my fault.”

My father looks away, toward Mr. Wallace's ghost. My mom takes a deep breath. Afraid to fall, I sneak in between them and rest my head on her lap, tuck my feet under his knees, and let my hair fall all over my face. Everybody cries in the green room, sometimes silently, sometimes snotty; we cry and cry until my father grabs my toes, shakes them awake, clears his sore throat twice, and opens Rudyard Kipling:
“ ‘The weather door of the smoking room had been left open to the North Atlantic fog, as the big liner rolled and lifted, whistling to warn the fishing-fleet … ' ”

And on and on, they take turns reading
Captains Courageous
out loud, and laughing and remembering and sniffing and stopping to catch their breath, then choosing another book and reading once more. We do this for hours, and I lean into the sound of my parents and the rain. I'm almost sleepy when the doorbell rings and interrupts my narrators, and my father gets up to check.

“Trick or treat,” a pair of little voices cry.

“
Oh my God!” my mother says. “We forgot!”

And as she pats my head, I close my eyes and see a butterfly, under a soaking yellow poncho, holding out her hand, hoping for the best in the bag.

forty-one

i told my parents about the picasso. my best friend hates me. i have nothing to hide. i just want to know if you are okay.

forty-two

It is positively the Day of the Dead at school. The parking lot is basically empty, and it's quiet out here, creepy quiet. Nobody's here except for the music kids; they get to use the recording studio on Sunday. There's a good chance he'll be here. Normally, on the first of November, we'd go out and have burritos, or my mom would stir some cinnamon in hot chocolate and call it Mexican, but this is no longer normally.

Last Halloween, I was Frida Kahlo and Elliot was
Diego Rivera. He drew my unibrow with eyeliner, and I pinned thick braids around my head. My mom let me borrow her flashiest shawls, embroidered with blue hummingbirds and thorny roses. I looked more like a lunatic fortune-teller than a self-possessed artist, but I embraced the role and wore my only long skirt. It was freezing. Elliot stuffed pillows under his shirt and brought me a calla lily.

All you have to do is be fat.

Sure, I'll be fat.

He was a Marxist.

I can be a Marxist.

We walked around the neighborhood and I took pictures of the decorations while he hobbled around speaking high school Spanish.

“Wasn't Frida a painter?” Elliot said, trying to get me to put the camera away.

“Yes, well, I'm a modern Frida.”

“Wouldn't she have hated the camera?”

“Actually, since you are asking, and I'm taking you seriously, Frida's first work was on photographs, or lithographs. Her father used to let her draw on the prints.”

“I didn't know that,
” he said, tracing my brow with his thumb. “And thanks for taking me seriously. How about a treat, comrade?”

I was a little embarrassed to actually ask people for candy, but Elliot tugged my skirt and we walked up to a house with a giant spider. A lady with a pointy hat opened the door, one hand on her hip, the other holding a glass of white wine.

“Se
ñ
ora,” Elliot said with a straight face, as confident but much more handsome than his alias, “this is my lovely and talented wife, Frida Kahlo, and I'm her irresponsible husband, Diego Rivera. Trick or treat.”

The woman smirked and gave me a Twizzler and Elliot a Snickers, and I felt a little jealous, not of the candy, which may or may not have been a conscious choice, but of the look on her face. I felt alarmed, as if she could take my fat painter away, into her upholstered living room, as if she were a real witch. I even forgot to smile about Elliot's little speech. This was when I knew. If you look back, you can always find the moment when you knew. We just tend to ignore it. House after house, Diego called me Frida, and house after house, they were charmed by his wit and dug out the best candies for him, especially the women. We waited until we were home, then dumped our loot on my mother's shawl and began to sort and eat. On my porch, in between candies, Elliot patted his pillow gut, and I picked dead leaves off my skirt.

“You know what?” he said.

“What?” I said, breaking a Twix so we could share it.

“Frida Kahlo was pretty amazing.”

“Indeed,” I said, smiling.

“She went through some serious stuff.”

I raised my eyebrow.

“I'm serious. I love the painting where she
's on the chair and she cuts all her hair off.”

“Me too,” I said, surprised that my music boy was up on the visual arts. “That's one of my favorites.”

“I knew it. You're kind of like her, you know? Without the unibrow, or the parrot, or the fucked-up husband.”

“Wow, you really did your research.”

“
Claro.”

I smiled and raked through the bag, looking for Nerds to make my tongue purple, anything to shut out the curious and vain Miriam, the Miriam who wanted to probe about why she was like Frida.

“Is it the mustache?” I asked.

“Nope,” Elliot said, “not the mustache.”

“She was a much better artist than I am,” I said.

“It's not the art either. It's the strength. You know? How you look everything right in the face, how you notice every little thing. I mean, she had a rough life, and I hope you never have that, but you know. I'm just saying—you'
ve got that fire thing, you've got that fight.”

I smiled and punched his arm, gently.

“I sound like a loser right now, right? I sound like a loser.”

“A fat loser,” I said.

We kissed and kissed and bumped fake belly and shawl, mixed real sugar and fake.

That was last Halloween. Frida would kick me in the shins if she could see me right now, and Diego would not be driving the car that I'm trying hard not to lean on. I don't have a right to anymore. He's not my boyfriend. He's not even my fucking friend.

I pray to the Name (who may or may not be willing to listen, at this point) that Elliot doesn't walk out with Maggie. He gives me a break on that, and he slows down when he sees me, but he doesn't exactly stop. He's wearing one of those old-lady cardigans that hipsters make use of. It's wool and dark green, and at least one button is missing. His hands are hidden in the pockets, stretching it over his hips.

“Hi,” he says.

“Hi.”

“How are you doing?” he says, looking slightly guilty.

“Okay. How are you?”

“Good, pretty good. I haven'
t seen you since the Smithsonian trip.”

“Yeah. I've been here, just a lot of work, you know. “

“Yeah, it's sort of killing me, this whole college thing. I'm sure you've got it figured out. I'm sure the Green is, like,
shoving
you to art school.”

My heart warms at hearing Elliot use our old nickname, but my brain knows this is not going to be an easy conversation, and the underhanded flattery only makes it worse.

“Yeah, not exactly.”

Elliot nods with his chin, then does that thing when you puff your cheeks one at a time, like you are waiting for something—the ultimate awkward. We used to finish each other'
s sentences or never even have time to start one. I must channel my Frida, get to the damn point.

“So, I have to talk to you. That's why I came here.”

He looks around. “Sure. Uhm, now? I have a few minutes, but then I have to be somewhere in, like, half an hour.”

“Yeah, well, now is better. Actually, now is pretty much it.”

“Okay.” He sits on the curb and drops his messenger bag. I stay standing. I start counting in my head. I tell myself that if I don't say it when I get to five, everybody I love will die. It worked when I was little and I had to make myself jump into freezing water, or get in the roller coaster line. I take out the Neruda book from my bag, open to “The Song of Despair,” and clear my throat. One, two, three, four, five.
“ ‘
The memory of you emerges from the night around me … ' ”

I cannot look up until I'm done. I cannot look up until I'm done.

“ ‘ …
and in it my longing fell, in you everything sank!' ''

Until I'm done, and I see his face frozen in complete embarrassment. Elliot's mouth is open in a perfect O, like the ghosts from last night. I force myself not to regret this.

“Did you write that?” he says.

I think of Eva and what she would say. How she would laugh in his face. I miss her, and I'm worried about her.

“I didn't. Pablo Neruda did.”

“It's good. It's sad.”

This was a bad idea.

“I don't know what to say, Miriam.”

“It's better in Spanish,” I say.

“Are you all right?” he says.

“I'm fine.”

“I didn't want to … ” he starts.

“Really. Don't say anything.”

He puts his face in his hands and rubs it a hundred times before looking back up at me.

“I'm really sorry. I'm sorry. Shit. I don't know what to say.
”

I have a terrible urge to take his hand, but I don't.

“Can I lean on your car?” I ask.

He looks surprised. “Yeah. Of course. Are you sure you're okay?”

“I'm all right. Look. I'm not asking for anything. I just needed to do that. I'm not going to bother you anymore.”

He looks up at me again, and that ratty sweater makes him look so skinny and weak I almost feel sorry for him.

“You're not bothering me.”

“Good. And I also wanted to say that someone gave me this book when I was in trouble, and it helped me understand some stuff.”

“I'm glad,” he says, waiting for his cue.

“Me too,” I say, and there is an awkward minute of silence and fidgeting, where two magnets have forgotten how to be in the same place at the same time.

“I'm glad you're doing okay,” he says.

I shrug.

“Thanks for the poem,” he says.

“Sure,” I say.

“You're brave, Miriam.”

“Or stupid,” I say.

“Never stupid,” he says.

And that's the best I'm going to get, so I consider giving him the book, because that would be a good way to close the scene, and if I were in a movie, that's what I would do, but then I remember Eva and her mother and her Pablo and how she said everything changes, and I think maybe I want to give him the book because I want him to read it and think of me, and that's when I ask myself why I should have to lose him and he should not have to lose me. Why? So I keep the book, and instead hold out my hand, which he shakes without looking up, and I turn around and leave.

I leave, knowing these things are gradual and I won't feel better right away, but I have to remember I'm already different. I'm already gone.