something cool and different and new. But she had these unfortunate, large ears, and of course, that stutter, and who was she anyway? Just another girl you work with at a part-time job. A little bit younger, a little too enthusiastic. Innocent, perhaps. At first anyway. A transplant trying to find herself, when Melanie and I already knew exactly who we were.
But Melanie always took to eccentrics, so when I wasn’t around, there was Sarah, which was fine. I understand. It’s good to have a partner, a wingman of sorts. And then after a while Sarah was around even when I was there, and I didn’t like that one bit. I never got to know her that well because I never tried. I only knew that she was always there, as if she were a new next-door neighbor who keeps borrowing sugar, and then eggs, and then milk. Eventually you let her know you can’t spare anything else. Even if your cupboard is completely full. Because eventually enough is enough.
MELANIE ’ S REPORTS from the island made her sound happy, and I liked to hear it. Contentment, I wondered what that felt like. Bitsy had offered her a residency program of sorts, she explained. Melanie had studied landscape design in college, and Bitsy had offered up part of her land as a canvas. Plus Bitsy was introducing her around to all the rich folks on the island, and Melanie was starting to get some work on other estates.
“They’re awful competitive out here,” she told me. “You plant one row of tulips in someone’s front yard on a Monday, and by Tuesday you’ve got phone calls to do the same at four other homes. Only—twice, and bigger.”
“The mysterious case of the multiplying tulips,” I said.
Mostly Melanie talked about Bitsy, her benefactor. They had met outside the Asian Art Museum—Bitsy had noticed her sketching the sunset through Volunteer Park—and Melanie was obviously fascinated with her. It was always: Bitsy bought a new couch, Bitsy is decorating a diplomat’s house, Bitsy knows
everyone
on the island.
She owned a lot of land, and had used her home there as a weekend getaway for years. Up and down the West Coast she was a famous interior designer, that’s what Melanie told me. But Bitsy said she liked how she was just island folk whenever she was there on the weekend. She liked walking around what passed for a downtown in her Wellies, and waving hello across the aisle in the grocery store, and reading the Sunday
Seattle Times
at the café near the ferry landing.
“They call her ‘Ditsy Bitsy’ around the island,” Melanie said. Her voice didn’t change when she talked about Bitsy, so I could never tell how she actually felt about her. She was like a newscaster reporting the facts, not allowed to express an opinion. News about Bitsy at eleven. I guess she was afraid to feel anything. Bitsy had given her a home, after all.
I wanted to believe she had a smile on her face, though.
So I would get the weekly report from Melanie on Sunday mornings. She would call from the main house while Bitsy was at church. (“She’s not religious,” Melanie explained. “She’s just community-oriented.”) That’s when I would get the full breakdown of Bitsy-related activity, mostly revolving around her social life. Some of the time Melanie would talk about her work on the island, and that’s when her voice would be at its most animated.
“They’re doing such cool things here, Jemma.” And she’d go on and on about solar power and public gardens and even the compost pile. Twenty minutes she’d spend talking about a compost pile, like she had never seen one before, like she hadn’t grown up with one in her backyard, like she hadn’t written a dozen papers on them in college, like she hadn’t volunteered at the composting center all of her senior year. But I suppose the air is a little fresher out on the island, away from the big buildings and all the cars. Melanie always wanted more from her environment.
She never talked about Doug,
But Melanie always took to eccentrics, so when I wasn’t around, there was Sarah, which was fine. I understand. It’s good to have a partner, a wingman of sorts. And then after a while Sarah was around even when I was there, and I didn’t like that one bit. I never got to know her that well because I never tried. I only knew that she was always there, as if she were a new next-door neighbor who keeps borrowing sugar, and then eggs, and then milk. Eventually you let her know you can’t spare anything else. Even if your cupboard is completely full. Because eventually enough is enough.
MELANIE ’ S REPORTS from the island made her sound happy, and I liked to hear it. Contentment, I wondered what that felt like. Bitsy had offered her a residency program of sorts, she explained. Melanie had studied landscape design in college, and Bitsy had offered up part of her land as a canvas. Plus Bitsy was introducing her around to all the rich folks on the island, and Melanie was starting to get some work on other estates.
“They’re awful competitive out here,” she told me. “You plant one row of tulips in someone’s front yard on a Monday, and by Tuesday you’ve got phone calls to do the same at four other homes. Only—twice, and bigger.”
“The mysterious case of the multiplying tulips,” I said.
Mostly Melanie talked about Bitsy, her benefactor. They had met outside the Asian Art Museum—Bitsy had noticed her sketching the sunset through Volunteer Park—and Melanie was obviously fascinated with her. It was always: Bitsy bought a new couch, Bitsy is decorating a diplomat’s house, Bitsy knows
everyone
on the island.
She owned a lot of land, and had used her home there as a weekend getaway for years. Up and down the West Coast she was a famous interior designer, that’s what Melanie told me. But Bitsy said she liked how she was just island folk whenever she was there on the weekend. She liked walking around what passed for a downtown in her Wellies, and waving hello across the aisle in the grocery store, and reading the Sunday
Seattle Times
at the café near the ferry landing.
“They call her ‘Ditsy Bitsy’ around the island,” Melanie said. Her voice didn’t change when she talked about Bitsy, so I could never tell how she actually felt about her. She was like a newscaster reporting the facts, not allowed to express an opinion. News about Bitsy at eleven. I guess she was afraid to feel anything. Bitsy had given her a home, after all.
I wanted to believe she had a smile on her face, though.
So I would get the weekly report from Melanie on Sunday mornings. She would call from the main house while Bitsy was at church. (“She’s not religious,” Melanie explained. “She’s just community-oriented.”) That’s when I would get the full breakdown of Bitsy-related activity, mostly revolving around her social life. Some of the time Melanie would talk about her work on the island, and that’s when her voice would be at its most animated.
“They’re doing such cool things here, Jemma.” And she’d go on and on about solar power and public gardens and even the compost pile. Twenty minutes she’d spend talking about a compost pile, like she had never seen one before, like she hadn’t grown up with one in her backyard, like she hadn’t written a dozen papers on them in college, like she hadn’t volunteered at the composting center all of her senior year. But I suppose the air is a little fresher out on the island, away from the big buildings and all the cars. Melanie always wanted more from her environment.
She never talked about Doug,
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