In the Debris
Dust
Victoria
We aren't on earth. We've been mingling with stars, glitter in the sky. It wasn't until we left the restaurant, hand-in-hand, when I realized the stars and the moon had not been watching us through the window of the car, it had been us who had floated right up through nighttime clouds as we'd kissed. Even through dinner, as the server had tried to talk us out of eating there by showing us her braced arm, telling us she was offered no insurance and had to pay out of pocket, and did we really want to eat in an establishment that treated its employees that way—even through all of that, our feet were never on the ground.
She must have noticed the way we smiled through her sob-story, the way we waved goodbye to her goofy enough to be called drunk, or high.
We were supposed to have made it farther along in our journey than the tip of Oregon on our first day driving, but seriously, how could we leave this town now after what had happened in the car outside the restaurant?
The road to the motel is so dark we're like bats trying to find our way. For at least a mile, all we can see is the few feet of road the headlights shine on. Still, we are so far from blind. We're not blind at all. When we look at each other, we see everything.
Settled in a room of rust carpet and gold bedding, lamps with fringe hanging from the bottom, I fiddle with my fingers. I search and search through my suitcase for something to wear to bed as if searching for a prom dress, and then, sitting on my knees, I fiddle with my fingers some more. The same fingers James had held in his so much tonight, so tight. I wouldn't be able to stop my smile if I tried, and who's trying?
I drop my hand to the mess of clothes.
"What are you doing, crazy?" He kneels down beside me, his hand rubbing along the back of mine. Fingers slide between fingers. "What are you thinking about right now?"
I turn my head and look up at him. "You." James has filled my thoughts just as if he's my blood and all of it has rushed to my brain.
It seems he can't help his smile, either.
"Yeah? Thinking about me makes you look like this?" He touches under my chin. I nod against his fingertip.
"Guess so."
"Good." And his lips are on mine.
He guides me by my waist, pulling, lifting, until we're both standing, walking, sort of tripping toward the bed.
He pulls the covers back and I stop the kiss.
"Wait. I-I can't get in those sheets with my dirty clothes on, and I have to brush my teeth. My mouth is still all sp-spicy from dinner." Having failed to notice this before now, I cover my mouth, and I glance over at my open, frazzled suitcase, still having no idea what I'm going to wear to bed. I brought only the normal night shirts, nothing at all revealing or halfway sexy.
"Hey, hey, Victoria?" He leans down, searching for my eyes. "Listen. You - we're, I mean, we're not. Not tonight, all right? It's so brand new and... so you don't have to worry or be nervous or anything. Okay?"
"Okay." I exhale. "Okay."
I finish getting ready for bed, pulling on a regular night shirt. In the bathroom, I brush my teeth next to James. I watch him through the mirror. Our elbows touch.
We climb under the sheets from opposite sides of the bed like it's natural, meet in the middle, and kiss. I love the way he kisses. His kisses are like... they're like... love. This is the way love feels and tastes. It's how snow must feel when the sun warms it, melting it to its original and truest form.
And once it melts, it doesn't disappear the way it seems to, but becomes part of the earth. Just like James and me and love.
We're nowhere else.
There's no room, there's no lamp, there's not even a bed. There's only us.
His lips are soft, and they give and they take, and then give some more. I try to give back, my hands on his shoulder, pushing. Pushing him to his back, kissing him until he groans and says, "Victoria," and he turns me over like nothing.
We kiss like we'll kiss forever; we kiss our lips raw and our minds incoherent; we kiss each other to sleep.
My temple's against his bare chest, my pulse against his heartbeat, his fingers tangled in the ends of my hair. And I'm back, all the way at the top of the sky with the stars and the moon. I might as well be the moon. I'm sure that, even under the blankets, I'm glowing.
.
We're on the road before it's light out, rain falling fast, like fingernails drumming a wild rhythm over the car. We're going all the way in to Sonoma today, only stopping for bathroom breaks and drive-thru meals.
By one we're in California. I watch the coast, waves hitting rocky cliffs, the forever ocean blending into fog.
James smiles when he kisses me, I remember. Almost every time. In the morning, showered, dressed, James had taken my face in his hands and stared at me. A smile crossed his lips. He kissed me. Smiling kisses, ending with a laughing hug.
It's in the quieter moments when you can learn the most important things about a person. Like in the silence of a smile. James could never again tell me that he loves me, but I'll still know it to be true with every smiling kiss he gives me. My own smile is aimed out at the ocean. And even if I'm not looking at him, and even if he can't see me, the smile's for James.
Sun begins to strike through clouds. The farther south we go, the clouds continue to break, the sky opening to blue. I look up at the all-blue February sky, amazed.
Out my window, a flock of blackbirds fly alongside our car, right at my eye level. Not so close I could touch them if I stretched my arm out the window. Not that close at all. But I watch them flying over a green-gold field, passing us by, lifting higher, and I feel like they're telling me something, like we're heading in the right direction.
I lip-balm my lips before taking out my poetry book where I jot down a poem about blackbirds who are wiser than owls. They can see the future and if you pay close enough attention, and if you can keep up, they'll lead you to it.
"Read it to me," James says.
I think it's kind of a happy poem, so I do read it to him.
We're on our way inland, tunneled by redwoods taller than the sky. I try to look up to see the tops of them, but I'd have to stick my head out the window to accomplish this.
James lowers the music. "I've been thinking about something. Don't laugh."
I face him, redwoods gone.
"I think I want to take drafting classes next year. I like building something new, and I want to start from the beginning. The design, the idea."
I touch his arm. "Why in the world would I ever laugh at that?"
"I don't know. I mean, me? Don't you think that's a little crazy?"
"Not for one half of a second. It isn't crazy at all. Why not? Why couldn't you?"
"Yeah. I can take night courses and work during the day."
It is in this moment, this conversation that I see our relationship totally different. That James can even think that any bit of this is laughable shows me that he needs me as much as I need him, but it's just a different sort of need. How badly does he really see himself, and is this view of himself still stemming from when he used to sell?
.
Redwoods give way to rolling hills and row after row of grapevines. We pass big buildings or homes splattered between vineyards. Then, down the hill a ways, there's a broken house, rotted wood, collapsed roof. The house is between two perfectly grown and green trees, bushes, plants, everything around it alive, but the house itself is so dead. I strain my neck to watch it go by. When I look ahead at the road again I wonder what happened to that house. Who occupied it once? Why did they leave? Why did nobody else take over? It was just abandoned to sit and rot, and for how long? How long did it take to turn the wood an almost gray-white, cracking and splitting, roof caving in?
"James, pull over."
"What?"
"Pull over."
"Why?"
"I want to say something and I want you to hear me."
He pulls over to the shoulder. "What's wrong?" His eyebrows tighten together.
"Nothing." I lean forward, taking his face in my hands. "Let's make a pact."
"Okay. What?"
"I love that you say okay before you ask what." I let go of his face but don't look away from his eyes. "The pact is, to never abandon each other, no matter what happens. No matter what."
"That sounds like marriage."
"Not marriage." I shake my head. "This isn't even really about being together in that way, it's about abandonment."
"Are you afraid I'll abandon you?"
"Not you. It's about not abandoning each other. You know how when buildings are abandoned they rot? I think that can happen to people, too. But not to us. Not if we always have each other in some way. Any way."
He picks up my hand and kisses it and against my knuckles says, "We won't abandon each other. It's a pact." He gives me one nod and a smile. And then I lean in and he leans in and our lips meet, sealing our pact.
James starts driving again only to have to stop to let a turtle cross the road. We look at each other and laugh.
"That's the cutest thing," I say.
"It's taking years to get out of the way." He checks his mirrors and I glance over my shoulder. There are no cars behind us yet.
If the blackbirds from earlier live in the future, this turtle lives in the past. Be careful. As cute as he is, he'll hold you back.
The sun is setting by the time we get to the rehab, and I can immediately see why my mom referred to this place as a retreat. It looks like a lodge, a lot like my uncle's lodge, like a huge wooden cabin, and it's surrounded by forest hills, and reaching trees. Some of the trees have blossoms on them. It's like this part of California thinks it's spring already. Inside there's a fire burning in a lounge area. A large mission statement hangs on the wall like art. Something about spiritual healing. I don't read it.
James takes my hand the second we're told my mother is no longer here and they won't release any personal information. He leads me outside, down a hill past garden lawns with benches and two-person swings made from logs, to a deck with umbrellaed picnic tables overlooking the lake. The breeze hits me with the mixed-scent of pine and dirt.
"We'll find out where she went. Just let me think of a way," he says.
Taking my hips, he guides me to the railing, and hugs me from behind.
The wind is cold in my hair, his breath warm on my cheek. "I have an idea. Stay here, okay?"
I turn to him, my fingers barely on his chest. "What's your idea?"
His lips lift into a small, unsure smile as he shrugs a shoulder. "Ask every resident I see if they know her. But you have to stay here."
"Why?"
"Because."
I stare at him for a while, searching his eyes.
"Just because, all right?"
"Give me a reason or I'll follow you." I hold on to the zipper of his sweater as if he can't go anywhere as long as I've got this.
"Because it'll draw more attention if two people are walking around aimlessly."
I nod and let him go. I think I know the real reason anyway. He's afraid I won't be able to handle it if he can't get any answers, or if I hear "Never met her," too many times.
Remembering the blackbirds, I close my eyes. They weren't telling me any message, they weren't leading anywhere. All those blackbirds were really saying was, "We're heading south, just like you." I'll have to rewrite the poem when we get back to the car.
I turn toward the lake, the sun already lower, hatching sparkles like lightning bugs over the water. The lake turns from teal to pewter before James gets back.
I hear his steps behind me but I don't face him until he takes my fingers and says, "I think I know where she is." He guides me to the end of the deck, down some steps, and he keeps walking. We probably aren't even on the rehab property anymore.
"Where are you taking me?"
"Closer to the lake."
We walk down a dirt hill, through weeds, using rocks to keep ourselves from slipping and tumbling. We cross a dock toward a wooden row boat with oars attached to the sides.
"Wait," I say. "Wait."
He climbs into it. "Come on."
I stand still. "We're taking a boat? Whose is this?"
"I don't know. I saw it when you did. Just get in."
"What if the owners find us?"
"They'll tell us to leave." He's smiling at me. As confused as I am, I get in.
The boat rocks, the water sloshing, and I just now notice how quiet everything is. My mind has been so loud it was impossible to notice the quiet before. It makes me shiver.
There are no seats so we sit on the floor of the boat, me between James' legs, mine spread out in front of me. "Why here?" I ask, leaning against him.
"Just for a break." He picks up my hand, sliding his fingers between mine.
"Where is she?"
"I found this guy who says he knew her and Maggie."
"How does he know Maggie?"
"He says they came together and left together. You have her address, right? Up by Mendocino?"
"You think they're at Maggie's house now?"
"Yeah."
"We're going."
"Mendocino's pretty much three hours back the way we came. It'll be almost ten when we get there. Do you think that's too late?"
"I don't care," I say. "We'll wake them up if we have to."
Not quite six and the sun is gone, the lake as black as tar now. The stars here, even though it's February, are so easy to see. I bet I could count them if I tried, if I had the time.
James asks if I'm ready to go.
"Let's just sit here for a minute." I turn to my side, leaning against his shoulder, liking this break. Sitting here, there are possibilities that can be anything. And possibilities, as my blackbird poem reminds me, are usually better than reality.
"Just sit here?" James asks, kissing down my cheek toward my lips. He turns my face, his lips taking mine. He moves so that he's in front of me, and then swoops me into his arms like a strong wind, pulling me close, kissing down my jaw, my throat, following the v-neck of my sweater. He lays me back against the wood, nudging his way between my legs.
Every once in awhile as we kiss, my hands holding tight to his shoulders, I become extra-aware that this is James. This is James kissing me. This is James on top of me. This is James pushing himself between my legs. James.
"We've never done this before," I say.
"I know. Believe me." He hovers over me, forearms on each side of my face, fingers in my hair. "I'm very aware of how many times we have not done this." He kisses me again.
The boat rocks.
"If we do this travel thing," he says, his breathing getting heavy, "we should stop at as many different lakes as possible."
"This summer."
"We'll rent a cabin. Go on real boat rides."
"No sailboats," I say, remembering the time we almost capsized.
"Nah, man, speedboats."
"Don't call me man." I laugh and pull his face back to mine. Just a little longer. Then we'll go and face the future.
Edward
"I have a dress." Her finger travels around the back of my neck to behind my ear. "It's blue." Lips press into my neck, and the dusty books, the bookshelves, the counter, the cash register, all disappear. My eyes shut. "Dark blue. Like... midnight." I'm starting to get this whole talk to somebody's neck thing.
I'm behind the counter, on a stool at the used books store, Isabella behind me, teasing me like crazy. I work here. I have a job. Here.
I make minimum wage. I can afford gas and dinner, but working here, I'll never be able to buy even one of my cars back from my father.
I've been at the bookstore since school let out today and I'll be back all day tomorrow. With the long President's Day weekend, my free days off school will be spent working. I can't afford to go on the senior ski trip, and Isabella said she'd never snow skied before, and didn't want her first time to be with the whole senior class.
People rarely come in on weekdays. I don't know how the place makes any money. One crotchety man came in yesterday and tried to light a book on fire. That's no way to make money. He was here earlier, too, and I followed him around. He said he'd be back later. I can't wait. I'm sitting on the edge of my stool.
"It's just too bad I don't have a date." She slides around and climbs onto my lap, her arms drifting up my arms to my shoulders. I tuck her in close. She kisses me.
This has been a joke between us ever since my father told Max and me we had to go to this hospital charity event this Saturday night.
He told me over the phone that the purpose of the benefit was to raise money to fund a program that would offer insurance to those who couldn't afford it. "And I expect you to be there," he said.
"You go to a million of these a year. Why do I have to go to this one?"
"Out of those million, this one is important for my family to attend. You're attending. You and Max."
"Can I bring Isabella?"
"No dates. Just my wife and my sons." For a split second I saw my mom's face when he said, "my wife." It's strange the way the mind works, how images just come and go like that, but they can still stop your life for a second, like a pause button mid-thought.
When I told Isabella about it, and that I'm not allowed to bring anyone, she said she was going anyway.
"How?" I asked. In my bed, Isabella was naked on top of me, her arms crossed over my chest, chin resting on the back of her wrist.
"My dad's invited."
I kind of laughed, thinking we'd beaten my father, before logic hit me with how ridiculous it is to ever think anything like that. He has something up his sleeve. He would know that the paramedics are invited. I didn't say any of that to Isabella. I'd have to figure out what's up on my own.
"Tell me more about this dress," I say against her jaw, my hand riding up her thigh.
"Silk," she breathes, my lips trailing along her collarbone until skin disappears under material. "Long. Tight."
Fingering the neckline of her shirt aside, I leave little pecks on her shoulder as I tuck my other hand under the hem of her shirt, holding her waist.
A gust of wind stops me, and I look up as someone walks in. All I can see around the bookshelves right now are shoes. I think it might be the book-burning man. It was the Mark Twain's he was after, all of them, claiming he was the original writer and he'd been plagiarized. He'd stuck a cigarette in his mouth, pulled out a lighter and before I could tell him about the no smoking rule he brought the lighter toward the corner of the book. I blew out the flame and took the book from him. Turning to the copyright date of the book, I tried to point out that if he had written it, his still being alive was an impossibility. When that didn't work, I told him he had to buy the book before he could burn it. I opened the front cover to check the price.
"Four-fifty, and then you can do whatever you want to it." He said he wasn't spending his hard-earned money on lies. I told him in that case, he couldn't burn it and I put it back on the shelf. That pissed him off and he walked out.
He'd returned since, as if he'd forgotten our first encounter, again asking for Twain.
But the man approaching me now as I sit on the stool, Isabella on my lap, isn't the book-burner, he's Garrett. Isabella slides down.
"Thought it was you I saw come in here," he says. He must've spotted me on his way in or out of his pub, only a few doors down. "You working?"
"Yeah." I stand up.
"How you been holding up?"
"All right."
"Yeah? Your brother?"
"It's hard to tell."
He nods. "Saw you in the pub about a month ago. You didn't say hello."
He saw me?
"Stuck to the shadows. This pretty girl was with you." He introduces himself to her and I introduce Isabella.
I clear my throat, unsure of what to say next. I don't feel like getting into why I didn't say anything to him that night.
"I get it. I understand." He pauses, his eyes moving in their sockets like they're pushing thoughts around. "You should come back and play sometime, for old time's sake. Your mother would like that."
I agree that she would, my hands jamming into my front pockets.
"What do you say?"
"I don't know if..." I notice him glance away and there's something there in that second, something I recognize but can't put my finger on exactly what. "Sure, sometime."
"Let's make it sooner rather than later. You let me know."
"What'll we play? I've been out of practice."
"How 'bout your mom's favorite?"
"Thought you didn't do covers."
"For Elizabeth I... She's the exception. She loved Let it Be better than any of mine."
Freeing one hand from my pocket, I rub the side of my face as I study him. Something's going on here. I'm getting this vibe from him I've never felt before. Or maybe I have but never recognized it.
"I tried to make a joke of it, you know? Teased her about her bad taste." He laughs, shaking his head at the ground.
As I stand here looking at him, I know. Somehow I know the way a person knows his own name. I know who he is as well as I know I'm Edward Anthony Cullen. He's the one my mother loved.
He puts his hand out to shake mine and I stare down at it—his fingers closed, stiff—until Isabella kind of gives my arm a nudge.
I shake his hand and I don't know how I feel about it. He isn't looking away from me, like he's contemplating saying something else. He doesn't release my hand either. He puts his other hand over the top of mine and shakes again. "I never got the chance to tell you how sorry I am about your mother. Elizabeth was-" Still holding my hand he looks off to the side, squinting like he's trying to read the spine of a particular book from this far away. "She was something else."
Taking a deep breath, he releases my hand and turns to leave.
He's almost to the door when I call his name.
He looks over his shoulder.
It's my turn for a deep breath.
"Yeah, son?"
"She, uh, my mom?" I just go ahead and blurt it out. "She loved you."
He takes a few steps toward me and stops, frowning enough to make me question myself. Maybe I was wrong. But then he comes closer to me, putting a firm hand on my shoulder from across the counter, giving me a slight shake. "Thank you."
I feel another hand, a softer hand on my other shoulder. Isabella's.
Garrett squeezes tighter a couple of times and thanks me again.
I turn and Isabella's reaching to hug me. My face falls to her shoulder. I never told her about what my father said about my mom. I didn't believe it, not fully. Not until a few minutes ago. I tell her about it now. There's something about explaining how your mother had a side to her you never knew while your girlfriend's hugging you. It just makes it easer. Not just to say it, but to face it. "I don't think I can play with him again."
Her fingers slide into the back of my hair. "He'll understand."
.
It's obvious I've learned how life can shock a person, how tragedy can take anyone without warning, and after Isabella's mom's car accident, it's probably clear to Isabella, too. But that doesn't make you ready for the next time; all it does is give you this panicky feeling in your chest when you know something's gone wrong, while the words "not again" reverberate through your head. This is what happens to me as soon as we step into Isabella's house. Renee's lying face down on the couch. Charlie's in the chair, leaning over, rubbing her back. Noticing us, he gets up and walks over, eyes red-rimmed, and I know before Charlie says anything. There's been a death. I put my hand on Isabella's back as Charlie opens his mouth to say, "Grandma's had a series of small strokes."
Isabella gasps; he takes her shoulder.
"Her doctor says she'll be okay, but she's recommending a pacemaker. To regulate her heart."
Isabella goes directly to her mother, practically lying on top of her, hugging. I stand here glancing at them, at Charlie, and then back.
After a few minutes, Renee taps the back of Isabella's hand and says, "I'm okay." She wipes her face. "Hi, Edward."
"Hello." And what do I say next? Do I say that I'm sorry? After she's just finished crying? Yes, I think. "I'm sorry." The words seem too small to mean anything.
"Thank you." Her smile is kind of tight, but she tries. She sits up, looking at Isabella. "We're going to visit her next week, okay, honey? You'll miss some school. The doctor needs Grandpa to-to make the decision. About the pacemaker. And he wants my help. Grandma, because of the strokes, doesn't have a very clear head."
"It might clear up." Charlie says. He's back in his chair, taking his wife's hand. "We're told this could be a temporary state. Just trauma. The doctor seems pretty positive."
Isabella nods. She hasn't said anything since we walked in.
Coming back to me, she takes my hand, and we go up to her room. When the door is closed, she brings me to the bed, pulls my arm around her from behind, and I say, "I'm sorry," quieter this time.
"I'm okay," she says, sounding exactly like her mom. "I just want to lie here for a second." The second turns into about half an hour and I don't move except to squeeze her close or kiss her head every so often.
She starts to tell me about her grandma. She tells me about this round footstool she used to sit on as a kid.
"I would spin and spin and spin. It made her mad. She told me to stop it. I might break it. It was so hard to stop, Edward. It was too fun." She lets a small laugh out. "I asked her for it when I was six. I asked her if I could have it when she died. It was weird because... I didn't think anything of it when I asked, you know? But after the words were out, I knew it was wrong. Or mean or something."
"What did she say?"
"She said she was never going to die. And when you're a kid... I believed her. I thought she had some secret to everlasting life. And I liked that."
I move a little closer to her, but we can't get any closer so all I really do is move us both.
"She wears tape in her hair."
"What?"
"Little pieces of pink tape. She wears them in her hair at night, to keep the curls in place while she sleeps. It was always weirder to me that the tape was pink than that she taped her hair. Like, it's tape in your hair. It's not going to be pretty no matter what color it is." Her laugh lasts longer this time.
"What else?"
She turns to face me and I brush her cheek back and forth with my thumb. "She always insists I have a cookie. Every time I visit, even if I say no thank you, she'll put one on a napkin in front of me."
"Why would you say no to a cookie?"
"They're always oatmeal raisin." She scrunches up her nose. This time I laugh.
"Does she do what you and your mom do? With the candles and herbs and stuff?"
"Oh, the magic?" She pokes my stomach. "She thinks my mom's crazy."
I ask her to sit up for a second, I want to check something. When she's out of the way, I lift her pillow to see if she has lavender under there, and she does. I pick it up. There's a ribbon wrapped and tied around it.
"What are you wishing for now?"
She takes it from me and puts it back under her pillow. "Nothing."
"Come on. Tell me."
"I'll tell you when it comes true."
She pulls me down with her. She kisses me. Subject changed.
A/N: Thank you readers! And thanks to my girls who write with me even when I don't think my brain can write. Thank you to my beta, who thinks she's slow, but she's really fast!
oh, and I have a brand new tumblr blog where I reblog pictures that go with my stories, or just random things I like, and sometimes post teasers.
/inribbons. tumblr. com
