is … is Victoria there?”
“No.” Mae sighed, and in a tone Sylvia wasn’t sure how to translate, she said, “No, Victoria is most certainly not here. ”
“What’s going on?” said Sylvia nervously. She had always counted on Victoria if she ever got the courage to run.
“It’s a long story,” said Mae. “I’ll leave her a note to call you. Did you say you’re at home?”
“I’m …” said Sylvia. She stared at her feet and swallowed. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No, dear,” said Mae. “I have no earthly idea.”
“Does she have her cell phone?”
“Yes! Why, yes, she does. I’m glad you thought of it. Let me get the number for you right now. I keep it on a pad in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” said Sylvia.
“How are things in Aspen?” said Mae.
“I’m … Well, like I said, I’m thinking of moving back to New York,” said Sylvia. Idly, she wondered if Ray had even noticed she was gone. She could still, she supposed, change her mind. She hadn’t quit her job or anything. She could tell her boss in membership relations that she’d had the flu. She’d had the flu and been too sick to call.
“Back to New York! Well, well,” said Mae.
“Do you think I should?” said Sylvia. “Do you think I should come back?” She twisted the phone cord around her finger until it hurt.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mae. “Where would you live, dear?”
Sylvia had figured she’d live with Mae. She’d imagined staying in Victoria’s sumptuous childhood bedroom, the way she had as a girl. There was plenty of room! Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek, suddenly exhausted. Her getaway plan was a flimsy fantasy, it seemed, though it had gotten her out of the valley.
“I guess …” Sylvia couldn’t bring herself to say it. “I have some money saved up,” she said instead.
“Here’s Victoria’s phone,” said Mae, listing the digits slowly.
Sylvia fumbled in her bag, found a ballpoint pen. She wrote the number on her hand.
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” said Mae distractedly. “You know you’re like a daughter to me.” She had always said that, from the time Sylvia’s mother died.
“Thank you,” said Sylvia. But she didn’t feel like Mae’s daughter, not at all. She felt like no one’s daughter, abandoned. Sylvia got change for a dollar, then called Victoria’s cell, but there was no answer.
Sylvia and Victoria hadn’t been close in years. But just the imagined safety net of the Brights had brought Sylvia comfort. Where else would she go? Sylvia had certainly helped Victoria—she could only hope Victoria would be there for her now.
From a vending machine, she bought a pack of gum and a can of Cherry Coke. She found an empty bench and sat down. The Coke was cold and sweet in her mouth. A bus pulled in to the station, but it was not her bus. A few people filed in, looking disoriented and sleepy. Sylvia wished she had an iPod filled with dance music. She wished she had a book to read. Now would be a good time to slip into a fictional world—Queen Victoria’s castle or Jane and Rochester’s giant house.
There was a newsstand next to the café, and Sylvia stood in front of the bright paperbacks, looking for a book that would transport her. She didn’t need a bodice ripper ( Taming the Tycoon ), and she didn’t want to be worried about a mutant disease ( Ebola and YOU ) or a deepening economic depression ( The End of the American Dream ) or terrorism ( Bombs in the ’Burbs ).
For a time, Sylvia had taken Paxil to calm her anxiety, but then she had realized that she really was living the wrong life. She was sick of having to mingle with rich people in the hope that they’d buy one of Ray’s elk paintings; disgusted with Ray, who slept all day on the couch in their overheated house; bored to tears of conversations that revolved around snow accumulation and kind bud. So she’d jettisoned the Paxil and started saving.
Sylvia had closed her
“No.” Mae sighed, and in a tone Sylvia wasn’t sure how to translate, she said, “No, Victoria is most certainly not here. ”
“What’s going on?” said Sylvia nervously. She had always counted on Victoria if she ever got the courage to run.
“It’s a long story,” said Mae. “I’ll leave her a note to call you. Did you say you’re at home?”
“I’m …” said Sylvia. She stared at her feet and swallowed. “Do you know when she’ll be back?”
“No, dear,” said Mae. “I have no earthly idea.”
“Does she have her cell phone?”
“Yes! Why, yes, she does. I’m glad you thought of it. Let me get the number for you right now. I keep it on a pad in the kitchen.”
“Thank you,” said Sylvia.
“How are things in Aspen?” said Mae.
“I’m … Well, like I said, I’m thinking of moving back to New York,” said Sylvia. Idly, she wondered if Ray had even noticed she was gone. She could still, she supposed, change her mind. She hadn’t quit her job or anything. She could tell her boss in membership relations that she’d had the flu. She’d had the flu and been too sick to call.
“Back to New York! Well, well,” said Mae.
“Do you think I should?” said Sylvia. “Do you think I should come back?” She twisted the phone cord around her finger until it hurt.
“I’m sure I don’t know,” said Mae. “Where would you live, dear?”
Sylvia had figured she’d live with Mae. She’d imagined staying in Victoria’s sumptuous childhood bedroom, the way she had as a girl. There was plenty of room! Sylvia bit the inside of her cheek, suddenly exhausted. Her getaway plan was a flimsy fantasy, it seemed, though it had gotten her out of the valley.
“I guess …” Sylvia couldn’t bring herself to say it. “I have some money saved up,” she said instead.
“Here’s Victoria’s phone,” said Mae, listing the digits slowly.
Sylvia fumbled in her bag, found a ballpoint pen. She wrote the number on her hand.
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” said Mae distractedly. “You know you’re like a daughter to me.” She had always said that, from the time Sylvia’s mother died.
“Thank you,” said Sylvia. But she didn’t feel like Mae’s daughter, not at all. She felt like no one’s daughter, abandoned. Sylvia got change for a dollar, then called Victoria’s cell, but there was no answer.
Sylvia and Victoria hadn’t been close in years. But just the imagined safety net of the Brights had brought Sylvia comfort. Where else would she go? Sylvia had certainly helped Victoria—she could only hope Victoria would be there for her now.
From a vending machine, she bought a pack of gum and a can of Cherry Coke. She found an empty bench and sat down. The Coke was cold and sweet in her mouth. A bus pulled in to the station, but it was not her bus. A few people filed in, looking disoriented and sleepy. Sylvia wished she had an iPod filled with dance music. She wished she had a book to read. Now would be a good time to slip into a fictional world—Queen Victoria’s castle or Jane and Rochester’s giant house.
There was a newsstand next to the café, and Sylvia stood in front of the bright paperbacks, looking for a book that would transport her. She didn’t need a bodice ripper ( Taming the Tycoon ), and she didn’t want to be worried about a mutant disease ( Ebola and YOU ) or a deepening economic depression ( The End of the American Dream ) or terrorism ( Bombs in the ’Burbs ).
For a time, Sylvia had taken Paxil to calm her anxiety, but then she had realized that she really was living the wrong life. She was sick of having to mingle with rich people in the hope that they’d buy one of Ray’s elk paintings; disgusted with Ray, who slept all day on the couch in their overheated house; bored to tears of conversations that revolved around snow accumulation and kind bud. So she’d jettisoned the Paxil and started saving.
Sylvia had closed her
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