Ark (24 page)

“You have to really want it,” said Helen.

“I think I do.”

“You'll need more than to just think you do.”

Rebecca said, “Okay, thank you, Mom. That's enough for now.”

“You're probably just not ready.”

“No,” said Rebecca. “Maybe I'm not.”

And she went to swim in the ocean.

But what was her mother doing, personalizing her struggle like this? Was her conscience bothering her? Yes, to see her daughter have to fight this way, she couldn't help but feel responsible. She dove beneath a wave and came up for air. Wiping her eyes, she thought she saw in the far distance a whale discharge water through its blowhole. She waited for the whale to shoot up water again. But then there was nothing more to see out there toward the horizon. She went under another wave. And coming up, she thought,
But was it a whale I saw?
Again, she looked out as far as her eyes could see. Now another wave came over her, and then another, and she concluded that her eyes had made up this whale. She returned to shore and her towel. She felt shaky. Helen suddenly stood. There was a frantic, suspenseful air to the manner in which she looked around herself on all sides. Her mother said, “I'm sorry, darling, but I have to get back to work. I have to go home. I have to speak with my people.”

“Okay, Mom.”

“We can have dinner later. You can come to my place.”

“Okay.”

“Good. I just, I have to go.”

“Well, let me help you.”

The women began to pack up their beach things. They didn't look at each other. They walked up from the beach to the hotel's back patio, like a series of putting greens separated by curving brick walkways. There were no guests anywhere. Helen had brought only a bikini and a dress in a shoulder bag. She asked Rebecca what time she would like to come over.

“I might start driving up the coast soon. I'll have to see if I haven't left town. I did rent this car, after all. I should use it.”

Helen brought her hands together behind her back. Her hips came forward, as if to temper some unwanted feeling. She said, “You'll let me know.”

They hugged goodbye. Rebecca remained at the open door of the hotel room until her mother was out of view. Then she went and closed the shades. She could still hear the ocean. A warm breeze blew in through the sliding patio doors. The light passing the curtains was orange. On the bed, Rebecca sat against a stack of pillows with her legs straight and crossed at the ankles. Her hand groping in the air beside the bed, her fingers folded around the lip of a wine bottle. She turned on the television and drank. She was pulled in by a film about a young American man and woman studying at the Sorbonne, their relationship started on long walks in the Bois, Café nights and conversations on art. But Rebecca fell asleep. She didn't wake until night. Suddenly she sat up and cursed. The time was 11 p.m.

She had to call her mother. She reached out toward the bedside table for her phone, but it wasn't there. She got up and turned on the light. She was disoriented by the unfamiliar feeling of the room. The brown ceiling fan turned slowly above the bed. Rebecca saw her phone on a chair next to the door. She stared at it for a long while and then got back under the covers. It was all right. She didn't need to call her mother. Had Helen even thought that they were actually going to eat with each other? Had she wanted her daughter to come over? No, Rebecca didn't think so. The covers were soft against her skin, the sheets warm and the ocean sounding a luxurious phrase. What of getting in the car and driving north now? Beginning the journey? Going?

Or perhaps a simple beach walk instead. She looked out toward the patio, the curtains moving with the wind. The bed was holding her with a perfect sort of affection. On the television, the same Americans-in-Paris film was being replayed. Rebecca only had to rewatch a few scenes and she would be back to where she'd left off last time. She was excited to watch now. But, once again, in only minutes, she fell right asleep.

The following morning, she woke with a strong hunger. It was 5 a.m. Restaurants weren't open yet. She fished out a bag of peanuts and a cereal bar from the minibar and made coffee on the machine in the bathroom, mixing in the dehydrated milk and leaving the red straw in the Styrofoam cup. She put on the television. Again, she thought of calling her mother. Or getting on the road. The covers and sheets were tangled up in a pile to the right of her. She stuck her feet beneath it and watched a Masterpiece Theatre production of
Little Women
. Every few minutes, she checked the clock to see if it was time for breakfast in the lobby. She was famished. Eventually, at 7 a.m., she went downstairs and put some of everything on a tray: two hardboiled eggs, a bowl of cornflakes, plain yogurt, an English muffin, a glass of orange juice, an apple. Climbing the stairs leading up to the second floor, the tread creaking under foot, she reminded herself to be careful not to spill.

Then Rebecca heard her name called. She turned and saw one of the hotel proprietors, the old woman, with her large-brimmed hat pulled low. Rebecca thought she might be doing something wrong. Taking too much food, for instance. Or was she not allowed to bring breakfast back to the room? There were tables to dine at in the lobby. Silverware was already set on napkins. Milk for coffee was arranged there. But Rebecca wanted to eat in bed, in front of the television. She said, “Good morning,” and smiled.

The woman didn't smile back. Her mother was right. There was something inhospitable about this person. “Rebecca Arkin,” she said, “you have a message from your secretary. She says to call her.”

Up in her room, Rebecca dialed work. Leaning in the doorway of the bathroom, she faulted herself for ever giving her office the name and number of the hotel. It was a quarter after ten in New York, but her secretary still had the sound of sleep to her voice.

“Rebecca,” she said, “you have messages.”

“Yes. Do you want to tell me?”

“Your father, and a woman named Sheila, and someone named Jerome.”

Rebecca ambled over to the bed and sat. The tray of food was on a chair in front of her. She began squeezing the English muffin, forming a small puddle of butter on the plate. Although her secretary was still speaking, Rebecca said, “Thank you,” and hung up. She thought of the rental car.
I should take off up the coast this minute
. But instead she got in the bed and ate breakfast. She slept, and woke at 2 p.m., and eyed the television and then the window, visualizing the beach and the ocean. However, she had the thought,
No, that's okay. This is good. I'm fine right here
, and her head fell back against the pillow, and she was soon asleep again.

Rebecca spent the next two days in her hotel room. She didn't step foot on the beach. Sleeping late each morning, straight through breakfast, she had food from local restaurants delivered to her room and left the metal takeout containers pooling with sauce everywhere. White boxes with handles like paperclips were stacked one atop the other next to the front door. Chopsticks and plastic utensils were lost in the bed. Over the past thirteen years, Rebecca had been too busy at law school and then at her job to watch television. Now she took in program after program with intense interest. Her eyes burned, her minibar was empty, her scalp itched, her skin was peeling. The hotel proprietor telephoned the room at one point and Rebecca was startled when the phone rang. She wanted to know if Rebecca was planning on paying with the credit card she had put on file.

“Yes,” Rebecca told her. “You can run it. I'm not sure how many more days I'll be staying. I'm not leaving today.”

In fact, Rebecca spent an additional week at the Surf and Sands. She let housekeeping come in one afternoon and change her sheets and give her more toilet paper and clean towels. Meanwhile, Rebecca went to the beach. She put her feet in the water and shut her eyes and wondered if her mother had tried her on the phone. Or called the front desk to find out if she'd checked out. The incoming ocean rising up to her knees, Rebecca thought,
Well, I hope I haven't insulted her
.

For Rebecca, the cleaned-up hotel room seemed off compared to the one she'd left fifteen minutes before. But over the next three days, she brought back all the mess and disorder, the paper takeout bags, the empty wine bottles turned on their sides along the bed, the smell of sweat and sleep pungent in the air. She kept the doors closed, the shades drawn, the ringer on the phone off. When, she wondered, would she want to leave this room? She gave herself timetables. Tomorrow. Or, two days from now. In twelve hours. First a shower and a nap and then off she'd go. But then Rebecca considered that she was here, at the Surf and Sands, and what was the likelihood of her ever returning?
I should take advantage and rest and be out of reach from all people
, she said to herself. She put on the television and shifted back into the pillows. She said, “This is bliss. This is really wonderful. I am happy for the first time in years.”

EPILOGUE: MESSAGES

 

When Rebecca checked out of the Surf and Sands, she got into her car and began driving north.

“…Because I've tried to live normally. I tried with your dad. But we couldn't make it work. His family dominated him. Now look at everything that's happening. Did I not predict this? Did I not try to get him out? I did—I tried so hard, Rebecca. I'm sorry that you've had to deal with all of this. It's not right. These people are sick. But I don't know how close I can get to your dad now. I'm not sure if it's good for me. You remember how much help I needed after he left me. I'm doing as much for him as I can, though. I rented him a new apartment near me. I've given him money. But he's telling me you won't talk to him. Rebecca, don't do that. Call your dad. He loves you. He loves you more than anyone. Don't hurt him. Ciao.”

She didn't know where she was going. But she wasn't returning to New York City.

“Sheila here. Your dad's not doing so hot. Have you guys spoken? He and I talked two days ago, and he didn't sound like himself. Go over and see him. Thanks.”

She was after reinvention now, a new life, and she didn't know how to make that happen back home in New York. Was it even possible? She wasn't sure it was. Maybe for someone else. Someone who really wanted to fight that battle, and to win it. She didn't have that desire.

“Rebecca, it's Jerome. Call your aunt for me, please.”

She sold her apartment and settled in Memphis.

“Rebecca, it's Sondra. I'm calling to say hello and to let you know that, with everything that's going on in the family, I am still your aunt and I still care about you. I would love for you to come spend a night or two up at the house in Scarsdale. It's very beautiful here, and I know your cousin would love to see you. It's a shame that no one in the family is talking. But especially with my parents gone, we should all be working to try to come back together. Your Uncle Steven feels the same way, and he sends his love to you. Know that I am always here for you. I have your best interests at heart. I remember when you were born. I was there in the hospital. It was a very special day for everyone, and you will always be very special to me. Call me if you like. We love you.”

 

JULIAN TEPPER's writing has appeared in the
Paris Review
, the
Daily Beast, Huffington Post
, and
Manhattan Magazine
, among many others. His first novel,
Balls
, garnered a great deal of attention, marking Tepper as a writer to watch. Since its founding in December of 2011, Tepper's Oracle Club has become an important cultural center for writers, artists, and musicians, even bringing about his self-portrayal in the popular television series
Gossip Girl
. He lives in New York.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

 

Thank you, Silas and Jenna.

Thanks to my mother and Sepp.

Thank you to Carrie Howland, Guy Intoci, Michael Seidlinger, Steven Seighman, Will Akers, Michelle Dotter, Scott Cheshire, Wayne Kabak, David Burr Gerrard, Philipp Meyer, Spoon, Richard Danielpour, Phillip Blumberg, Mark Fischer, Benjamin Kruger, and Steven Isenberg.