give them an answer and you can’t let them know you need them right back. You can’t let them know you’re in pain and that you work so hard so that everything will be okay without you. My mom never let me see her fear. She must have been so afraid to let us go.
“Remember your hair?” he asks. He glances back.
“What about it?” I ask.
“Your hair,” he says, letting his hands hover over his head. Then he turns to me with a face that’s recollecting something, pulling from the trenches of memory. “The way you wore it. In college.”
I shake my head and grin with one side of my mouth, recalling my hair I’d insist on blowing out, then curling. It was an aggressive bounty of bleached blond tight curls and stiff bangs. I wanted to look like Tina Kilpatrick on the Denver news and unfortunately, I did.
The week before Cully died he had cut his hair, and it made him look so grown up and handsome.
I’m about to say good night, but then I notice Kit’s black book on his shelf. “You’re keeping the calendar?”
He looks at the shelf. “I wanted to look through all of it,” he says. “Before I see her tomorrow.”
He looks like he’s questioning something in his head. “It’s an odd thing to leave,” he says.
“Ask her about it,” I say.
“You think she’ll really come back?” he asks.
“Why wouldn’t she?”
He looks up at me and then the confused expression leaves his face.
“What?” I say.
“There was something she said. We were talking about things—her dad, nature, you know.”
I pretend to know.
“I asked how her dad felt about her living here after college. She said something about him telling her that people in ski towns were prone to STDs. Wasn’t the outdoor type. She said she loved Indian Princesses, but while the other dads would be pointing out edible plants and berries, hers would be telling her that people like Ralph Waldo Emerson were fiscally retarded and there was nothing remarkable about men who got their jollies from drinking water out of a hoofprint.”
“Wow,” I say. “Sounds like you guys had a lot to talk about.”
“It’s just funny because Cully once said the same thing—about Emerson, about the hoofprint. Isn’t that strange?”
“Maybe it’s from a movie,” I say, but something in me flutters.
“Maybe,” he says.
“Anyway,” he says, “I’m off. Off to bed. Good huddle.”
“Good night,” I say. “Love you.”
“Love you more,” he says.
Chapter 8
I should have listened to Holly. Work was an incredible disaster. I had to interview a “terrain park specialist” named Bone, who, while in school with Cully, was known for taping pictures of gay pornography to the backs of tourists. After that we went on to visit B Beauty, where we had to test out and comment on the clever names of the lipstick colors—Shop Teal You Drop! Ha ha! I tried to do my job, make people want things they don’t need, little luxuries that will break and peel by the time they return to sea level. They will want lipsticks they already own. They will want a lipstick holder and other lipstick accessories, something I didn’t even know existed.
“Sarah, maybe more enthusiasm?” Holly said to me and pantomimed enthusiasm, which made her look like a crazed downhill ski racer. I rolled the lipsticks up and down, thinking that if this were a movie I wouldn’t be here. I’d be at home, perhaps. There’d be a shot of me looking at a picture of my son, a slow song in the background doing the work for me. Maybe I’d be gearing up to take his ashes to some exotic place he always wanted to see.
A book would jump ahead and then meander its way back to one of the many beginnings. Cully as a child. Me giving birth. In print my thoughts would be beautiful, understandable, and fluid. There would be themes. It would be deep. I would not be so acerbic. I’d be a sympathetic character—warm and lovable, fragile. Neither the movie mother nor the book mother would
“Remember your hair?” he asks. He glances back.
“What about it?” I ask.
“Your hair,” he says, letting his hands hover over his head. Then he turns to me with a face that’s recollecting something, pulling from the trenches of memory. “The way you wore it. In college.”
I shake my head and grin with one side of my mouth, recalling my hair I’d insist on blowing out, then curling. It was an aggressive bounty of bleached blond tight curls and stiff bangs. I wanted to look like Tina Kilpatrick on the Denver news and unfortunately, I did.
The week before Cully died he had cut his hair, and it made him look so grown up and handsome.
I’m about to say good night, but then I notice Kit’s black book on his shelf. “You’re keeping the calendar?”
He looks at the shelf. “I wanted to look through all of it,” he says. “Before I see her tomorrow.”
He looks like he’s questioning something in his head. “It’s an odd thing to leave,” he says.
“Ask her about it,” I say.
“You think she’ll really come back?” he asks.
“Why wouldn’t she?”
He looks up at me and then the confused expression leaves his face.
“What?” I say.
“There was something she said. We were talking about things—her dad, nature, you know.”
I pretend to know.
“I asked how her dad felt about her living here after college. She said something about him telling her that people in ski towns were prone to STDs. Wasn’t the outdoor type. She said she loved Indian Princesses, but while the other dads would be pointing out edible plants and berries, hers would be telling her that people like Ralph Waldo Emerson were fiscally retarded and there was nothing remarkable about men who got their jollies from drinking water out of a hoofprint.”
“Wow,” I say. “Sounds like you guys had a lot to talk about.”
“It’s just funny because Cully once said the same thing—about Emerson, about the hoofprint. Isn’t that strange?”
“Maybe it’s from a movie,” I say, but something in me flutters.
“Maybe,” he says.
“Anyway,” he says, “I’m off. Off to bed. Good huddle.”
“Good night,” I say. “Love you.”
“Love you more,” he says.
Chapter 8
I should have listened to Holly. Work was an incredible disaster. I had to interview a “terrain park specialist” named Bone, who, while in school with Cully, was known for taping pictures of gay pornography to the backs of tourists. After that we went on to visit B Beauty, where we had to test out and comment on the clever names of the lipstick colors—Shop Teal You Drop! Ha ha! I tried to do my job, make people want things they don’t need, little luxuries that will break and peel by the time they return to sea level. They will want lipsticks they already own. They will want a lipstick holder and other lipstick accessories, something I didn’t even know existed.
“Sarah, maybe more enthusiasm?” Holly said to me and pantomimed enthusiasm, which made her look like a crazed downhill ski racer. I rolled the lipsticks up and down, thinking that if this were a movie I wouldn’t be here. I’d be at home, perhaps. There’d be a shot of me looking at a picture of my son, a slow song in the background doing the work for me. Maybe I’d be gearing up to take his ashes to some exotic place he always wanted to see.
A book would jump ahead and then meander its way back to one of the many beginnings. Cully as a child. Me giving birth. In print my thoughts would be beautiful, understandable, and fluid. There would be themes. It would be deep. I would not be so acerbic. I’d be a sympathetic character—warm and lovable, fragile. Neither the movie mother nor the book mother would
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