The Possibilities: A Novel (24 page)

“Do you know when they mate,” my dad says, “they jump from branch to branch.”

We all pause at the doorway of the ballroom.

“Whoa,” Kit says.

“You weren’t kidding,” my dad says.

I take in the dimly lit room. Chairs have been set up on both sides to face a cleared space down the center. Club-like music is playing.

“This is Cully’s memorial?” I ask.

“I think we’re about to watch a fashion show,” my dad says.

I watch a man across the room slip a shrimp into his mouth.

“She says it will be dedicated to him,” Suzanne says.

“Just what he would have wanted,” Billy says.

“I am so sorry,” Suzanne says. “I don’t know why she had to hide it this whole time. Why tell me there’s going to be a celebration for Cully? Why make you guys come all this way?”

My dad puts his arm around her. “It’s fine. Whatever this is.”

“There’s food,” she says. “And wine.”

Part of me feels comforted that her child is disappointing her. Both pride and displeasure in one’s children seem to make mothers bond.

“Cully was going to come,” I say. “It’s perfect that we’re here.”

“What do you mean?” Suzanne says.

“It was in his calendar,” I say. “To come to the Springs today. Probably to be right here, to see Morgan’s show.”

“That’s nice,” Suzanne says. “That’s so nice.”

“So we’re here seeing what he would have come to see,” Billy says.

We stand at the edge of the room, as if we’re about to jump into an icy pool.

“Should we get something to drink and eat?” my dad asks.

“Yes,” I say, but no one moves. Kids are in clusters talking and moving to the music, making pouty faces. Why does everyone make that same face when they dance? More shrimps are put into mouths. A girl near us issues a frustrated sound. “Damn it,” she says, looking at her pink dress, a splotch of spilled liquid above her hip.

One of the guys in her party lifts his shirt, exposing a muscled stomach. “Would you like to borrow my washboard?” he says. “I’ll get it clean in no time.”

The girl doesn’t laugh, but Kit does, quickly. I bet this boy has been waiting all night to use this line, perhaps his whole life. He happens to see all of us witnessing this and narrows in on Kit. If I’m not mistaken he gives her a look of complicity, as if to admit his cheesiness, or to distinguish Kit from the girl in pink.

Without looking at us, Kit walks in.

•   •   •

THE SETTING HAS
rendered us speechless on the prior topic. Where it was ridiculous to have the conversation out there, it’s even more so in here. My dad, Kit, myself, and Billy are clustered together, wallflowers at the dance.

“Zero-entry infinity,” my dad says, looking through the glass doors to the pool below. “Makes people feel like they’re at the beach. You never see beach pools making people feel they’re in the mountains. Places need to dress as themselves.”

“Dad,” I say, in a loving voice. There’s nothing else I feel capable of saying. I put my hand on his back, turn his attention to the room. I point out persons of interest—the boy by the speaker who has dyed his dreadlocks gold and black, the school colors; Morgan herself, with her headset and clipboard, who seems too busy to bother. She is by the microphone, set to the side of the runway. She’s wearing a black dress.

I imagine Cully here tonight, how if I came, we’d be eyeing each other right now, making secret expressions. Morgan’s catching up to him. Soon she’ll be older than him. If she has children, they’ll probably never know she had a friend who died, or they will because it will be one of her narratives, but it won’t mean anything to them.

“There’s Suzanne,” Kit says. She’s across the room by the drinks table, standing with Dickie. They look like a fitting couple. Their outfits even match. Dickie has his hand on her shoulder, making her seem like a familiar resting place. I gaze at this peaceful view.

Dickie sees us and nods in our direction and waves, but stays back when Suzanne makes her way toward us with two glasses of wine. I see Dickie talking to a waiter and know he’s sending more our way. Both he and Suzanne become anxious when people around them don’t have a drink. After a dinner party at the Fowlers’, where glasses are never empty, guests wake up the next day using the expression “Fowlered again.”

Suzanne hands me my wine. “Everyone okay?” I turn to face the growing crowd in the darkening room.

“We’re fine,” I say.

“It’s time to sit down now,” she says. She’s been shamed, I think, by this whole night, and yet I am completely at ease. I think everyone feels this way, maybe a bit guiltily, like we’ve gotten out of something. We won’t have to feel after all. I follow, go where I’m told, sit down in between my dad and Kit. The crowd—about fifty college students and some adults—settles when Morgan stands in front of the curtain. My dad looks at me, raises his eyebrows. Billy looks around, amused, maybe eager for a good show. Dickie looks the same as always, as though someone’s whispering jokes into his ear.

“Hello, everyone,” Morgan says into a microphone. “Thank you so much for coming tonight.” The voices quiet down. My thoughts do too, as if something has been extracted, letting things fall into place.

“This is such a special night for me.” Morgan looks out into the crowd. “It’s my last year here at CC, my third time chairing our annual fashion show, and my first time directing it.”

Some students clap and cheer aggressively and we follow along.

“I want to thank the Broadmoor for allowing the Back Row to be here tonight. Sorry, but this is much cooler than Armstrong!”

Everyone laughs and I do too, relieved and surprised by Morgan, standing at the helm, commanding this room with such grace.

“I also want to thank the Colorado Springs chapter of Dress for Success, the CC Sewing Club and Arts and Crafts, and the Student Government Association.” She pauses and looks toward our row. “I want to thank my parents for their support and friendship. This has been hard to put together. It’s been a difficult time—” Morgan waves her hand in front of her face and I look at Suzanne doing the same thing. I tear up too, and laugh. I turn to Kit and her eyes are watery.

“So sweet,” Kit says, looking at Suzanne.

“In December I lost a friend who was like a brother to me,” Morgan says, her voice back under control. “I want to thank his mother, Sarah, for being here tonight.”

People clap weakly. They turn to see whom Morgan’s addressing and smile sympathetically when they see me.

“Cully’s father, Billy, is here, and his grandfather, Lyle St. John. Thank you guys for coming tonight.” There is more applause and then Morgan clears her throat. She takes a big breath, sucks in her lips, then exhales. I’m edgy, like she’s about to sing.

“This isn’t totally what I had planned,” she says. “I wanted to have a celebration of Cully, but then I realized something.” She pauses.

What did you realize?

“I realized that he would have wanted the show to go on.”

I feel my company communicating something, and holding something back. It’s funny how feelings are always more urgent when you’re supposed to be quiet.

“So instead, tonight will be dedicated to my friend, Cully St. John!” Morgan takes another dramatic pause. She looks up at the ceiling. “Cully,” she says, “this one’s for you.”

My son. I see him shaking his head, rolling his eyes, but he’s okay. He’s happy. The surrounding blank gazes—none of these people knew him—they are here for the show that will go on. Billy looks over at me and I laugh softly at our preparation for this. It is perfect.

“Okay, let’s get this started!” Morgan says. Music begins to play and it fills my chest. “You are in for a visual and musical treat. Welcome to
Andiamo ex Machina, To Fall in Love with a Machine
!”

The volume turns up higher, music pumping into the space. Kit and I make eye contact during the loud applause, letting ourselves laugh. “To fall in love with a machine?” she asks.

“I have no idea.”

Billy is moving his head to the beat. The row of us all look happy, relieved that this isn’t about Cully. Our emotions won’t have to be on stage.

The first student model appears in an armor-like bodice and a skirt made of feathers. She waltzes down the runway and I move a bit in place, filled up with something that the music helps usher in, a little merriment, a little hope.

I watch the show, lost in it at times, proud of Morgan. I’ve known her all her life. Suzanne is enthralled, and I recall all those assemblies we attended together, the plays and races, recitals and matches. Your own children are so fascinating.

I let tears fall. I don’t want to reach up to wipe them away, partly not to draw attention, and partly because it feels good to unexpectedly mourn him. At our service I was too preoccupied with ordering food and feeling like I was being watched and appraised—my every movement interpreted. And the ashes ceremony failed to do much of anything.

The day after the service just my dad and I spread some of his ashes at the pass. Maybe some of them are still in the same place, weighed down with snow. After I tossed them into the air, most fell in a clump. My dad and I looked down at them.

“Do we just leave them like that?” I asked.

“We could cover them,” he said.

“Maybe we should have thrown them over the railing,” I said. “Or hiked a bit more.” I kicked some snow over them, then stopped, not feeling right about doing that.

“I’m going to save the rest,” I say. “I don’t like it here.”

“I know,” my dad says. “It’s cold.”

We stood there for a while, looking at the ashes in the white snow.

“Do you want to say anything?” my dad asked.

I tried to think of something to say. I tried to remember an old prayer. We had hiked a bit from the road, but I could see a car pull over, a family get out to take pictures. A young girl carried a red sled.

“Let’s just go,” I said.

“We can’t just leave him,” he said. It was a ridiculous comment, but I agreed.

“Get him then,” I said. “Let’s put him back.”

My dad scooped up the snow with the fallen ashes. “Do I put them with the dry ones?”

“I don’t know. I guess so?” He put the wet ashes in with the dry ones. He did this as I kept on the lookout, like we were stealing something or doing something wrong. We got him back. For the first time I think that I’m ready to try again and Billy should be there. Maybe Billy knows a better place for him. We will do this. I can do anything right now. Something is breaking in me, but instead of feeling broken, I feel as if something better is building in its place. I keep wanting to get to the other side, but what if I’m already there? What if this is what it looks like?

Two girls walk together down the catwalk, mock serious in stiff skirts that look like they’re made out of tent stakes, and so are most likely tent stakes, and I feel close to soaring. This has nothing to do with Cully and everything to do with him. Suzanne’s marriage was a failure, Morgan’s intentions for a celebration: failure. Cully’s drugs, his death, this pregnant girl beside me. My mom’s death, a failure to beat a disease. My dad’s inability to let his work go, Billy and me. All failures. And ones that I want to worship, renegotiate their labels. If these are failures, then I’ll take them all.

I make eye contact with Kit, communicating something. She looks wistful, thoughtful.

Morgan announces the next batch of students and Kit says something to me that I can’t hear.

“What?” I ask.

“I didn’t think I’d want a baby,” she says. I lean in toward her. Her voice, calm and low. “I don’t want to be pregnant. It’s selfish of me, but I didn’t want a baby out there in the world. I didn’t want to be a girl with a baby. I just want a clean slate. I wanted this part of my life to end.”

The people around us applaud and the music’s volume rises.

“Kit,” I say, after taking in her words, “you’re mixing tenses. ‘Didn’t, don’t, wanted, want.’ ”

“I don’t know what I want. I see you guys and I . . . I like what you have. I like what you and Cully had, or must have had. I’m confused. Maybe I can do it. Maybe this is what’s supposed to happen to me.”

Everything inside me seems to screech to a halt. The music is suddenly deafening. I take a moment. I’m about to speak, but my mouth is frozen into a little
o
.

She looks scared, like she jumped into that icy pool and can’t get out, and her fearfulness gives me sudden clarity. I take her hand for a moment, squeeze it with a quick pulse like Morse code. Whatever is happening is about to begin.

“Come outside with me,” I say.

I tell my dad we’ll be right back. We walk toward the exit of the ballroom. Soon it will be just the two of us. No other voices in our heads. No other opinions. Two people. And now I know that what I need to do is whittle it down to one.

Chapter
20

We walk out to the path around the lake. Jupiter and Venus are both clear in the sky and the surrounding lanterns are lit. The cool air is rich with pine and a trace of what I think may be goose shit. Pikes Peak is moonlit, unamused. It doesn’t care about us, no matter what we choose.

“I don’t know what I mean,” she says.

“Let’s just put one foot in front of the other,” I say.

I gather my thoughts as we walk past the willows, the spa, past a sign that says Only Golfers Allowed Beyond This Point. We are walking in time with one another and I purposefully try to change my clip.

“When I was about six years younger than you are now, I went through the same thing.”

She looks at me, unsure.

“I got pregnant,” I say. “I eventually went to my father for help. My mother wasn’t alive.”

“You were seventeen?” she asks.

“Sixteen,” I say. “When I think about it now, I’m pretty amazed at how great my dad was. For all his two cents he let me be an adult. He helped me without telling me what to do, without making me feel bad.”

She nods beside me.

“Then again when I was twenty-one, I went through it again. I got pregnant again and I went to my dad. Watch out.”

She hops over the tendril of goose poop. “Thanks,” she says.

In the grass a goose sleeps, an orange anklet tucked under his wings. We continue toward the bridge.

“Sometimes I feel like I’ve known you for a long time,” I say.

“I know,” she says. “So the second time you were pregnant with Cully.”

“Yes,” I say.

“Do you regret the first time?” she asks.

I take a breath. “No.”

We walk slower as we get closer to where we started.

“I guess my point is that you need to go home.”

“I didn’t think that was going to be your point,” she says.

“I know,” I say. “I’m not as good as my dad at this.”

We both look straight ahead. I can’t see her response.

“I’m revising my point,” I say.

“Okay,” she says.

“I had help. That’s my point. I went to my father. You need to go and be without me, without my dad, Billy, Suzanne, this place.”

She looks around at this place.

“Breckenridge,” I say. “You need to be in your place, talk to your mom, your dad—yes, sorry, more talking, but you need your family and your turf. You need to do whatever you’re going to do back at home. Do you understand? Does this make sense?”

As I say this, I get a feeling of déjà vu. It’s not the situation I’ve lived before but the process of prescription, the family meetings in the living room where I assigned tasks to Cully, telling him how to be. This wasn’t just to help him but to help myself, to apply order to our lives when I felt there was none.

We walk up the hill of the bridge and stop at the apex, above the murky water where I can see the thick bodies of fish moving.

She looks at me in a way that makes me think she sees through me, that my prescription, return home, is something to bring
me
back to health, to help me move, perhaps not on, but along properly, in the way the books endorse.

“You’re kicking me out of Breckenridge?” she asks.

“No,” I say. “Well, yes.” I cross my arms in front of my chest as if for reinforcement. “Yes, I am.”

I keep quiet, letting her mull this over. I never considered her disagreeing with me.

“Can you do that?” she asks.

“I think you know it’s a good idea.”

She doesn’t say anything. She’s much better at silence than I am.

“I can’t imagine a daughter going through this without me,” I say. “As a parent, it’s the worst thing to consider—you kids not letting us help you.”

I wonder if Cully went to Billy sometimes, not because he was a man, but because he thought I was too busy, or too stressed out with the business of raising Cully. I’d make such a big deal about schedules—and they mattered, I know it all mattered—but did he know that he could always, always come to me? Did he feel, as Kit feels about her mom, that I had too much on my plate? Not coming to me. Not using me. Because I had a big interview with a nail salon or I had to cheer up tourists if they weren’t sold on the cold. Considering this gives me a sinking feeling, a dark despair. What was the point of me if he didn’t use me? The purpose of me as a parent? What’s the point of everything parents do if the kids aren’t going to employ us?

“You need to go to them,” I say.

“I thought you could help me,” Kit says. “I went to you.”

I try not to get lost in her helpless look, try not to hug her or see her as mine. Nothing about her belongs to me.

“I’m going to help you with a plane ticket home,” I say. “I’ll give you a number, and a girl named Nicole will arrange everything. Just tell her the time you’d like to leave on Monday.”

She furrows her brow in a way that is cutely petulant. “That’s the day after tomorrow.”

“It is,” I say. “You don’t have a lot of time.”

“I’m like White Fang,” she says. “You’re releasing me into the wild. The wilds of Westchester.”

Her joke is reassuring. It tells me she understands. Maybe relieved to be grounded.

“Let’s go back,” I say. To the show that must go on. We walk down the bridge toward the ballroom, to the light and the music. I feel steady and accomplished, nearer to somewhere I should be.

“We need to cancel your appointment,” I say.

She walks a few steps before saying, “I already did.”

I stop walking and she stops too. I automatically look at her stomach, shaking off the idea of fingerprints.

“When?” I ask.

“When you dropped me off at my condo to get clothes.”

I make to speak but can’t. She has said so much. She came along anyway, knowing the whole time not what was going to happen but what wasn’t.

I’m about to ask why she did this, but I don’t need to know. I feel that this whole side trip has been a kind of test drive for her, seeing how this foreign vehicle runs: its capabilities, deficiencies. How does it feel in the seat? Is it practical? Or does the gut reaction of love override sense? It all comes together. It all matters.

“I just wanted to be with you guys,” she says.

I look at all of her—her face and arms, her beat-up boots, this girl on the brink of something. I glimpse a tag under her arm. “You left your tags on,” I say. “Turn around.”

“Oh yeah,” she says, looking under her arm. “I tucked them in. I’ll give this back to you.”

“Don’t be silly,” I say. “I’m not going to return it.”

“Please,” she says. “I feel bad. The room too. You’ve done enough. I shouldn’t be taking her dress. It’s her gift. Or you could wear it after. We’re the same size, I bet. I might get bigger anyway.”

A flash of fear crosses her face, as if she’s seeing a version of her life appear, then disappear.

“Here,” I say. I try to turn her around, but she resists and falls a step toward me. “I want you to have it,” I say. “Unless you don’t like it.”

“No, I like it,” she says. “I love it, but—”

“Then let me give it to you. I want to give something to you. I want you to have something from me. Just let me take off the tags.” I bring her to me, hold her still in a forceful embrace, and rip off the tags, hurting my hand and jostling her body.

“Sorry,” I say. I stay there with my hand on her cool back, then close my embrace. Her arms are down by her sides and then she raises them and puts her hands on my back. I am holding my breath. I let it go.

“I don’t know how to do this,” she says.

Her cheek is warm against my neck. I savor this sensation of a child holding me, needing me.

“It’s good not to know everything,” I say.

We face one another, locking our gaze, which is a hard and rare thing to do with someone. We memorize one another and then, through a silent consensus, we continue toward the glow of the hotel.

“I haven’t looked this decent since . . . since I had sex with your son,” she says, and laughs but chokes a bit on the laugh. A cry. There really should be a word for laughing and crying at the same time. There is one. When Cully was around eight we’d do Mad Libs at night, plotting the nouns, verbs, adjectives. Then we’d read our concoction and laugh so hard he would cry.
Claughing
, we’d call it. I would laugh at him laughing, wanting more. It was addictive.

“Will you go back then?” I ask.

“Yes,” she says, and I try to picture what she’s going back to, her roots and sources, the climate and landscapes, all of which will guide her to tomorrow. I picture curvy roads and gray skies, red leaves and barbecues, Scrabble and sports coats.

She will see her father and maybe she will understand him, his call to go, his right to make mistakes, and discover how difficult it is to see your father, and maybe one day your son, as men, with needs and base desires.

I try to picture her mother’s face, but Billy’s mother comes to mind. I almost laugh at imagining Billy telling his mom he got some girl pregnant. I see her jaw not dropping but doing just the opposite. She’d emit a sharp yelp, the sound a dog would make if you stepped on its tail. What will Kit’s mother do? How will she respond? Not just her family, but the entourage of a family. They’ll have to adjust, relearn her, discover the reservoirs, complexities, and back alleys that will lead them to someone they always knew.

We walk up to the deck. “Why did you wear a dress?” I ask. “With Cully.”

“I don’t know. I just felt like it. I put on makeup. Wore a dress.” She looks down. “And these boots.”

“Where did you go?” I ask.

“Steak and Rib,” she says.

Perfect. Just perfect. I smile even though my heart hurts. At this moment I love this life.

I almost ask her for more, but this is something a mother shouldn’t know. This is something she can keep and return to. It’s her memory and so I let her have it.

She walks ahead of me to open the gold-rimmed doors. I hear the music and am struck by the desire to dance and move. I watch her walk, a slight bounce in her step. I’m giving this girl back, she’ll be okay no matter what, and for some reason I know and deeply care that my mother would be proud of me.