Certain American States Page 13

It’s the Junior-Junior Varsity Cheer Team, Karen explained. It’s really quite competitive.

  Start them early, that’s good, I said, but no one heard me. I leaned over to Sarah—Men really do need a lot of encouragement. That entitlement’s not going to just maintain itself, you know.

  She chewed a big mouthful of buttered bread and stared at me, then turned to Karen. Mom, what’s entitlement?

  We’ll talk later, dear.

  After dinner, Ethan decided it was a good time to deliver a speech about men, about how to tell a good one from a bad one (There’s lots of bad ones, he said, I hate to break it to you), but Jarod was obviously a good one because a good man would have the common decency to ask permission before he proposed to another man’s daughter, which is what Jarod did, and Ethan hoped Sarah and I could both find such good men for ourselves, because a happy life began with a happy marriage.

  I was ripping up a piece of bread into little pieces when Ethan tried to cajole me, for some reason, by saying, A good man is hard to find, am I right, Bridget?

  What is that supposed to mean?

  It’s a Flannery O’Connor story. I thought you liked her.

  Have you even read that story?

  Bridget, Karen said. We’ve almost had such a nice time here, let’s not—

  Of course I’ve read it, Ethan said, rolling his eyes and finishing half his ouzo in a sip.

  So do you want to talk about the part when the whole family is murdered or are you trying to say I’d be a good woman if I had someone here to shoot me every minute of my life? Maybe that line was supposed to be some kind of marital metaphor? Karen, what do you think?

  Ethan started to say something back, but Karen put a hand on his wrist like she was hitting PAUSE.

  Linda, why don’t you tell us how wedding planning is going? Karen asked. Did you pick a florist?

  As Linda went on about hydrangeas I thought of midnineties Linda, the class president with a pierced nose and bleached hair, the one who chose an AIDS nonprofit for the annual benefit concert and didn’t waver after getting death threats, the one with a pen pal in Olympia who sent her riot grrrl zines, the one who gave me condoms and Bikini Kill cassette tapes. And, sure, people always disappear into new people, and no one can stop the way new versions of people overtake the old versions of people, but something about the new Linda was so menacing that it made me suspicious of what she’d done with the old Linda.

  Can I ask you something? Why are you in such a hurry?

  Linda rolled her eyes but when they stilled I could see a little fear in them; she couldn’t lie to me, not completely. We were all silent for a moment and I wished (not seriously, but I did (sort of) wish) I hadn’t said anything to point out that she was only twenty-three and had abandoned her plan to do an MFA in vocal performance the minute that Jarod had proposed.

  Why do you have to be so horrible? Linda finally asked.

  And remind me again—is the size of the diamond supposed to symbolize Jarod’s cock or his salary? Or is it actually a to-scale replica of your clit? I can never remember—

  Bridget! Karen shouted.

  Are you a lesbian, is that it? Linda asked. Is that what this is all about?

  What’s a clit? Sarah asked.

  I’ve got a tiramisu, a molten chocolate cake, and a spumoni, five spoons, the waiter said to the silent table. Little Sarah replied for all of us—Thank you … Thank you … Thank you—each time another plate was set down.

  I left the restaurant and no one stopped me and what happened next, I want to be clear, was not a cry for help. For years afterward Ethan and Karen were certain I was a suicide risk, and true, I did sort of feel like dying, but I didn’t want to kill myself and I wasn’t into drugs, so there was only one remaining option.

  That night I called the girl from the Social Justice club whose apartment I was going to sublet for the summer and told her something had come up. The next morning I packed my few things into my Honda, and I felt deeply uncertain about what I was doing but also certain that whatever I was doing needed to be done. I drove west and kept driving west, feeling no compunction, no thrill, no romance of the road—though I can admit now it was a romantic thing, that I must have been at least a little thrilled by myself, that some compunction could have done me good, but isn’t that always the problem—what we think is a moment of clarity we later find to have been clouded.

  For the next fourteen months I committed no serious crimes, had no interaction with the police, drove as little as possible. I worked for cash, sold my things at flea markets, bartered for anything I could. I did myself no direct harm. I cried rarely, learned to use a gun. Occasionally I spoke at length to a person, but only if there was something to be said, something to hear. Usually I used fake names. I was never once at risk of falling in love or being seriously injured. I was almost something like happy.

  And though I now realize how foolish this was, it never occurred to me that by not being in any kind of touch with any friend or relative, I would be declared a missing person and eventually presumed to be dead. That July day I returned to Portsmouth to get my passport I expected them to be angry at me for missing Linda’s wedding, or that maybe Ethan would be upset I’d dropped out of college, but I did not expect my mother to make that strange little cry and fall over, to faint, to actually full-on faint when she saw me.

  Their front door was unlocked so I’d let myself in, and though I could hear some people in the backyard, I’d stopped in the living room after noticing my senior-year school portrait on the mantel beside that obscene little trophy—the 2001 Physics Award. I picked it up—heavier than I remembered—then the back door opened, a wave of voices, scent of seared meats.

  Hello there? Karen called out as I heard her heeled footsteps in the hall. We’re all in the backyard, come on—

  When she turned the corner and saw me she fell right over, almost immediately, half catching herself on the couch arm as she went down. I had never seen anyone faint except girls who faked it to get out of ballet practice—a real faint looks like death and likely feels like some kind of death too, because when Karen opened her eyes she didn’t look as surprised by me as she had before, as if she’d long ago made up her mind that once she died she would see me again. What a thing to think.

  I don’t remember much else from that day. Lots of shouting, weeping. Ethan and Karen were hosting the neighborhood’s Fourth of July barbecue, and when Ethan stood at the back door hollering into the crowd for Sarah and Linda to come inside, his voice cracked.

  There was a question of whether the barbecue should go on, whether they should tell everyone that their middle daughter was back from the dead, whether it would have been good or bad news. It might spoil the mood, upset people, be too confusing. Some of the neighbors believed in the Resurrection, after all, and since the World Trade Center people had stopped whispering about the apocalypse and began to speak of it, plainly and loudly, whenever.

  They took me upstairs like I was something precious or dangerous. Karen and Ethan did that nonsensical happy-cry, a wet laughter, but Sarah cried in fear—the only person she’d ever known to die and here I was again, ruining the lesson. Like me, Linda didn’t really weep, just got glassy-eyed and uncomfortable. I thought I sensed a sort of jealousy radiating from her, either that or she was weary from a midday beer wearing off.

  Linda, Karen said, her face streaked with makeup, go get … the baby—you’ve got a niece, my dear. You’re an aunt!

  Linda came back with a baby on her hip, pink gingham jumper, matching bow, and the baby broke into a ballistic laughter at the sight of all these grown people crying.

  She’s eight months today, Linda said.

  She was a little early, Karen said.

  No, she wasn’t, Linda said, glaring at Karen. You can stop saying that. Everyone knew I was already pregnant.

  What’s her name? I asked.

  There was a long pause, like it was a struggle to remember.

  We named her Br
idget, Linda said, slow and hard.

  Though I didn’t want to, they begged me to stay a few days, but soon their joy had worn off and then came the questions. Where had I been and why had I gone and why hadn’t I called and how had I earned a living and, really, what was wrong with me and how were they supposed to believe that I hadn’t wanted to fake my own death and why didn’t I care enough to just let them know I was alive and did I understand how expensive a private investigator was and could I even imagine how devastatingly sad my memorial ceremony was and did I plan to finish college and didn’t I know there was nothing I could do without a degree these days and didn’t I have any plans for the future at all?

  Ethan kept saying I had no right, I had no right, and I knew that was the difference between us, that he believed that different kinds of people had different kinds of rights and that I, in particular, had never had and would never have the right to take my existence and place it beyond his reach. Eventually he and Karen began to talk about sending me somewhere and I knew I had to be going—not because I thought they could (I was mentally sound and not a minor)—but because this made it clear nothing was left between us to become clear.

  I got in my car and began driving again, this American pastime—a boring solace or a bloody mess—though you never know which until it’s over. I was in a Far West college town when I ran over a baby deer that had jumped out from between parked cars, and as I stood over the quietly spasming carcass, the days between leaving Virginia and being here felt like a misplaced set of keys or a fading dream—I’d just had them, then not—and I’d just begun to dimly cry as I watched this deer being taken from itself when a woman walked over from her yard, to say I shouldn’t feel so bad. There’s thousands more of them, she said. It’s just an animal. Happens all the time. She took out a small knife and gently cut its throat, and the gutter accepted the blood as if it were rain.

  The woman wiped her knife clean on her pant leg, folded and stowed it, and said, Look. We watched the deer turn dead. I thanked her for being there.

  She smiled. No sweat.

  I had this strong desire to tell her something, to tell this woman that her being there and saying what she’d said and doing what she’d done had changed everything in me forever because it was only then I realized I’d driven all the way out there—three or four days of steering—just to reach the point at which I could turn around and go back. I wanted to tell her of this feeling I’ve had all my life, but I couldn’t find a way to describe it and I stood before her with my mouth open and drying out, waiting for a word, then I remembered or thought for the first time that when anyone tells a story they must leave most of it out, so I told the woman I’d been traveling a while, that I felt confused, that I was trying to become less confused but was only becoming more confused.

  The woman wore thick overalls, a sort of mechanic’s garb, a hammer hanging in the loop. Her face was all laugh lines and tan, hair like a wad of steel wool. And she said to me—because she had to say something—Well, that’s how it works, you know, working yourself into and out of situations. That’s how it works.

  She was telling me her whole life story with all the details left out.

  So here is what happened for the next few years, what happened with only almost all the details left out: I went back to school, got some degree, a job, bought a car, bought a house, bought other things, worked and drove and ate and worked and worked. I vanished into the map of how a life should go. I had a net worth and knew it. Karen or Ethan would call around the holidays to see if I was coming home (no) and around my birthday to see if I was alive (yes). Additional babies and children appeared in Linda’s Christmas card. It seemed there was no limit to how many people she could create.

  Ten years went like this. I cannot make sense of it. One day I was watching that deer die and driving through American prairies and plains, then I was thirty with a net worth and the same man sleeping beside me all the time.

  Randall was pretty. I don’t know where he came from. He combed his hair flat and cooked and cleaned. If I asked Randall what he thought about something he would say, What do you think? and listen carefully and often he would completely (or almost completely) agree with me. He had so few defining characteristics and habits that it was impossible that I was in danger of becoming anything like him. I remained myself.

  Once I asked him if he thought it was a good idea or a bad idea to never talk to your parents or sisters if you didn’t like talking to them and they didn’t particularly seem to like talking to you.

  What do you think? he asked me.

  I think it’s fine. Or, I think that I think it’s fine. It makes me sort of uncomfortable or guilty though I don’t think it’s rational to feel uncomfortable or guilty because I’m not doing anything actually wrong. It’s more uncomfortable to call them than it is to not call them, and yet I still feel like I should call them. But I don’t want to do anything just because it seems like what you should do, because a lot of the worst things people do they only do because they think it is the thing they should do. Doesn’t it seem a lot of horrible things happen that way?

  Hmm, Randall said. Sometimes he just made serious listening noises like this.

  But I guess sometimes I wonder what they look like now or act like now, that maybe they’ve changed in ways I couldn’t have anticipated. If you were me, would you want to go visit them maybe?

  And that’s how we ended up back in that living room I hadn’t seen since I’d been a just-resurrected person. The Physics Award was still on the mantel.

  It reminds us of that time we thought she was dead, Sarah said to Randall as he studied it.

  Ha-ha, Randall said.

  No, seriously. She never told you?

  She never did. You could have been a physicist. Imagine that.

  Sarah resisted the impulse she seemed to have to tell him about that year, and he didn’t ask me about it, then Karen was shouting to us about dinner being ready.

  After dessert Ethan invited Randall out to the porch for a Scotch while Karen cleaned the kitchen and Linda’s many children ran around the house playing a game they called Dead, in which one child would hide somewhere while the others announced that child to be dead, until the dead child came back and they would run laps around the house together screaming, I’m not dead! I’m not dead!

  When one of the kids dashed in from the porch, I overheard Randall asking Ethan, What do you think? in that same tone and cadence he used with me.

  Linda kept telling me I looked skinny—Why are you so skinny? When did you get so skinny?—but we had always been and were still, more or less, the same physical size. She just wanted to remind me, in any way she could, that between the two of us, she was the larger person.

  And in the interest of leaving out all the details I will say that it was shortly after this Randall asked me if he could ask my father if he could ask me to marry him and I said that was fine, and my father said that was fine, and when I was asked again I too said it was fine. And it was fine. Eventually we were married and that went fine and we were a fine pair of newlyweds and people called us newlyweds with such a glee that I never knew where to look.

  It was shortly after all this that I woke beside Randall to find Randall was already awake, sheet to his chest, hands folded under his chin. He was staring at the ceiling.

  What are you thinking about? I must have been in some kind of panic since I rarely, if ever, asked anyone that question.

  The ceiling, he said.

  These were also the days I regularly imagined checking myself into a psych ward, a thought I had with the ritual and frequency that other people take multivitamins. It seemed to keep me healthy, this psych-ward ideation, though it would have been difficult to prove it had any effect on my health at all. I confessed my psych-ward-ideation-multivitamin to Randall as he stared at the ceiling that morning, and he made his serious listening noises and kept staring at the ceiling. I began to cry (who knows why, they came on like nosebleeds) an
d Randall’s phone buzzed. He picked it up; an AMBER Alert.

  Have you seen this child? he asked, holding the screen out to show me a little boy with small eyes and big teeth. He brought the phone back to his face and began checking sports scores while I soaked my pillow with silent weeping.

  So that’s how The Blitz began, as Karen called it. I drove to Montana partially because I could remember being content when I’d traveled there as a younger woman and partially because I thought I remembered someone mentioning their divorce laws were so easy that all the documents were written in Comic Sans.

  You are a cruel woman, Karen said on speakerphone as I was driving through the Badlands. Really, you’re heartless.

  Not really.

  Well, you’re doing a cruel thing to a good man.

  He won’t mind.

  Oh, is that right?

  He hasn’t minded anything so far.

  A few weeks later in Montana, I was saying more or less the same sentences to Sarah as I drove her back to my new home, that musty old cabin on the deadest end of a dead end.

  No offense, Sarah said as dusk fell, but this place is creepy.

  It was creepy, but it was also the only furnished place I could find, and I wasn’t sure how long I’d stay in Montana, just as I hadn’t been sure whether to stay with Randall for another two weeks or the rest of my life, and just as I hadn’t been sure, when leaving Randall, whether I should keep living in that house and have him move out, or whether I should find another house nearby to live in alone, or whether I should leave that city completely—and it was during this indecision that I began moving from home to home, all of them prefurnished, short-term rentals, trying on this kind of life, that kind of life, waiting either to find the right kind of life or waiting to stop believing there was a right life and just settle on one. During those nomadic months I realized I had no pressing reason to keep or quit the job I’d long had. There was often no reason to get out of bed, though there was also no reason to stay in bed, and there was never a reason to eat but never a reason to starve. Reasons were in short supply. Whether to smoke or not smoke—no reason—and when given the choice to speak or not speak I found no reason to do either and when I looked back at past choices I couldn’t identify a reason for any of them—no reason to marry Randall, to own a car, to have a job, to live in one city or another, one state or another, to finally go to that long-imagined psych ward or find some other end to live in—and now, reasonless in a red state, the possibilities were infinite and nonexistent.