The Possibilities: A Novel (11 page)

Chapter
9

When I get home I am shaky from the day. I walk toward the kitchen, then two steps away, decide to rest. I put my purse on the table, leave my coat on and my shoes, then press my back against the wall and sink to the floor.

My dad finds me this way, legs in front of me, shoulders slumped. I’m like a cavewoman meditating.

“Sport,” he says, and makes to sit next to me, but I say, “I’m fine, I’m fine,” not wanting to feel more than I do. I think of the last time he found me on the floor; I was sobbing like a jilted girl at the prom. Ugly, desperate, aching tears. It was after Lorraine came to visit.

He sat down beside me, held me, then brought me onto his lap and rocked me like a baby. I don’t recall his ever holding me like that before, and affection was something I had never really needed from him, but at that moment, I relented. I let him hold me. I let myself quake. After I settled down, I got off his lap, knowing this sort of comfort and release would never again be repeated unless one of us got shot and lay dying. Even then.

“When you got hurt,” my dad said then, “as a kid, you used to run at me like a bull runs at a matador. I’d brace myself when I’d see you coming. You’d throw yourself at me and wail. I’d sit down with you on my lap. You’d cry, but then you’d get occupied with the hair on my arm. You’d start pulling on it and you’d forget what hurt. But I guess you reach a point where you can’t sit on your parent’s lap anymore.”

He stands over me now. I want to pull his arm hair. “Tough day?” he asks.

“I’m okay,” I say. “Just resting.”

“Work okay?” He holds out his hand and I let him pull me up.

“No,” I say. “That’s the problem. I’m not good at it anymore and I’m making people feel bad. I’m not being a nice person. And I hate it here.” I look around at my house, finding faults everywhere. The glass windows need to be cleaned. The fabric on the dining room chairs is faded. The hardwood floors need to be resealed. The dryer takes forever.

“You’ll get there,” he says, in a way that doesn’t sound very convincing. He helps me out of my coat and hangs it up for me.

“I can’t get there. I said on camera that one of the lipsticks looks like a dog penis. I want to get there, believe me,” I say.

“Then do a good job,” he says. “Maybe skip all the dick talk.”

“Thanks, Dad. Good point.”

I go to make myself a drink. I decide on an old-fashioned without the bitters and the other stuff. I guess that would just make it bourbon. I add the other stuff because it seems classier, something someone who is “getting there” would have.

“I’ll have what you’re having,” my dad says, infuriating me that I’ve completed my task and now we’ll get to the final destination at the same time. It’s like zipping your car madly through the lanes only to have the slow idiot pull up alongside you at the light.

“Make one yourself,” I say, then add, “Sorry, I got it.”

I repeat the process and make the drink, then bring it to him nicely and lovingly. He stands at the far side of the kitchen island and seems to be contemplating the swirls in the granite. I place his drink down in front of him and clink his glass.

“So you saw Billy today?” he says.

“How did you know?”

“He called me. Told me he’s coming to the Springs with us. I told him to come sleep here, but I guess he has a place in Beaver Creek for the night.”

“How nice. He talks to you, talked to Cully. I didn’t know you were all so bonded. I don’t know anything.”

“There’s no secret,” my dad says. “You know we still talk. You say it like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not a bad thing, I don’t know.” I take a sip and sit on the barstool. “I really don’t care. I just feel like I’m discovering a whole bunch of new things, that’s all.”

“Me too,” he says.

“I bought Morgan a dress today,” I say. “At Valleygirl. Hopefully she’ll like the label. Want to see it?”

“No thanks,” he says.

It’s fitted, green, and reminded me a bit of the dress she wore when she took Cully to her junior prom when he was a senior. She was so proud by his side. Cully was a good sport, enduring the photos without looking like he was enduring something.

My dad stares at something, his eyes not focused, then he takes a sip and cringes.

“Dad? What’s up?”

“Nothing, sport,” he says in a way that reminds me of the way I spoke to Cully when I wanted to appear upbeat, not involve him in adult problems.

I take a sip of my drink and ask, “How was your day?” with an ice cube in my mouth.

“Complex,” he says. He leans against the counter as if recovering from a run.

“What happened?” I crunch the ice.

“I’m not sure yet,” he says, and finally looks at me.

“What is it?” I ask. “You’re scaring me.”

“I don’t know yet,” he says. “I’m still thinking about it.”

“Thinking about what?”

He looks out toward the living room window and I follow his gaze. “Dad?” I say. “What are you thinking about?”

“Motives, life, days, months, people,” he says. “The people who come into our lives. The little interruptions.”

“What are you talking about?” I keep my hand around the glass. “You’re being weird.”

He gets something out of the grocery bag he uses as his purse and slides it toward me. It’s the calendar.

I place my hand on top of it. “Did she come today?”

“No,” he says.

“Wasn’t she supposed to?”

“She didn’t,” he says.

“Maybe she forgot because it’s on her calendar,” I say. “Or maybe she only shovels when it doesn’t snow.”

My dad isn’t amused, which worries me.

“I looked at it last night,” he says. “Looked at it carefully.”

“Yeah?” I say, making my voice even. “And what did you see?”

“Take a look.” He nods his head toward it.

I open it up, not understanding what this calendar will explain. I swallow, flip the pages, scan the boxed days marked with different colored pens. It’s not even a new calendar. It’s like leaving someone with marked-up Post-its.

“Look at it,” he says.

“I am.” I turn to July, but it’s blank. I turn to past months. I see “Hunting” on the twenty-first of April and I read some of the scribbles:
Ghost Town
playing at Ollie’s at ten,
1
/
8
Ang,
1
/
8
Cecilia. 12–4, 6–close. 422-1313. Durango on the fifth. Springs on March 23, which is odd because that’s tomorrow, the day we go to the Springs. I look up.

“She’s going to the Springs tomorrow?”

“Keep looking,” my dad says.

It’s not until I land on May 18 that my father’s message reaches me. MOM B-DAY, it says. May 18 is my birthday and now, finally, I recognize that this is Cully’s handwriting. I take my hand away from the calendar as if it has just burned me.

“I don’t understand.”

I pick it up this time, hold it closer, flip through the pages, not really seeing anything. My mind flips too, not able to land, focus, retain, piece together.

“I don’t understand,” I say again. I never even knew Cully had one of these. I look for something, something to hold on to, like a rock climber searching for a foothold. What is “Hunting”? Hunting for what? I cannot imagine Cully hunting. I can only imagine him making fun of hunters or letting the animals come to him.

“What is happening?” I ask.

“She must have known him,” my dad says.

“No shit, but what is this? Why did she leave this? Why did she go about it this way? Who is she?”

How do I not know this girl? How do I not know about this book he relied on to organize his days? I remember Cully’s T-shirt that smelled of strawberries. Is Kit the girl on his shirt? I want to ground him. I want to lock him in his room. No, I want to look up at his face and shield my eyes from the sun.

“Maybe she was his girlfriend,” my dad says.

“No,” I say. “I’ve never seen her before.” I realize this doesn’t preclude her from being his girlfriend. It’s just something to add to the list of things I didn’t know.

“Or a friend,” he says. “Obviously someone close enough to have something of his.”

“Why didn’t she just give this to us in the first place? Why the hell did she come over and do manual labor?”

“I don’t know. Maybe she was afraid—”

“Afraid of what?” I yell, answering myself.

“Beats me,” my dad says. “It’s a conundrum.”

“I feel violated!”

“That’s pushing it,” my dad says.

“It’s not pushing it,” I say. I go to the other side of the island, needing something to do. I turn on the water faucet—no reason—then turn it off. “She was snooping on us. She was lurking—I knew something was funny.”

“Lurking with a day planner behind her back. Where is Neighborhood Watch—”

“You’re upset by this too. Don’t pretend you’re above it. Life, people, the interruptions.” I try to imitate his enigmatic speech.

“I’m not pretending,” he says. “But I’m not upset. I’m contemplative. I’m . . . at a loss.”

“I’m at a loss.” I look around the living room as if something might present itself to me. “And I’m upset.”

“Yes, that seems to be your thing lately.”

“It’s not my thing! Here. Hand me that.” He slides the calendar across the island to me, but I don’t open it.

“Maybe we should pretend we didn’t discover anything,” he says. “We could keep giving her chores.”

I drum my fingers against it. “She’s not coming back, I bet. She just left this, caused a stir, then off she goes. That hoodlum.” I open to the first page.

“Okay,” my dad says, “easy now.” He picks at his lower lip. “Well, I’m off to bed.”

I look up. “You’re just going to go to bed after all this?”

“No use dwelling on it when nothing can be done this second.”

“But you’re just going to go to bed? It’s—” I look at my watch because I have no idea what time it is. “It’s seven.”

He finishes his drink, then slides the glass toward me, expertly. I catch it.

“I’m going to go down to my bed to think about all of this,” he says, walking toward the stairs. “Probably retrace the conversation I had with her. Then I’m going to read, maybe watch TV, do my night beauty regimen, then fall asleep. Is that okay?”

I try to think of something to keep him in the room. “You haven’t eaten anything.”

“I went to Fattie’s with some of the guys. Then to Rasta Pasta. I had a craving.”

He stops at the top of the stairs.

“You need to stop going out for dinner all the time. It adds up.” I don’t mean this. I love when he goes out and socializes.

“When you’re my age you’ll understand,” he says. “I’m closer to death. I can spend money on Rastafarian penne. Now good night.” He walks down the steps.

“Why can’t you retrace your conversation with me?” I say.

“Because you’re not a nice person,” he yells.

“Good night then,” I yell back.

“Love you!”

“Love you more,” I mumble, knowing the reason he’s disappearing. He doesn’t like when he doesn’t have the answers. He doesn’t want his child to see him at a loss.

•   •   •

I GET READY
to look at the book, holding off until I have everything I need. I get into my pajamas and my warm bedroom slippers. I make dinner—pasta and broccoli with shaved parmesan and a little olive oil and lemon. Not very rasta, but good. I drink some wine while I cook, a New Zealand sauvignon blanc, then I bring my dinner and wine back to the dining table. I put on music—Van Morrison—then wonder if that’s too gloomy or if it carries too much heft. I let it play and decide the music is hopeful.

I sit down. I have a bite of dinner. I have a sip of wine. Then I open the calendar to the first page. No handwriting, just small blocks of the twelve months to come. The next page, a list of holidays. The next page, blank lines for contacts. And then, evidence of life.

January fourth, “Costco.” Cully would go with my dad to Costco in Gypsum. They loved this excursion, though they pretended it was such a hassle. I smile to myself, imagining them pushing the cart, elbowing strangers for samples. They liked to brag they had a free lunch but would come back with so much stuff. They both loved to shop.

I keep browsing the calendar and now understand the need for it. His work schedule wasn’t uniform. There was no consistency from one week to the next, and this book allowed him to lay it all out. I trace over his handwriting with my finger. I take my time with each page, even though it is essentially dull reading. “6–close,” “12–4.” Nothing to glean here. Nothing that stirs me or gives me insight into the boy I love. And yet I’m comforted. I like the feeling of going through something of his and feeling unremarkable. I am steady. All our birthdays are on his schedule, my father’s and Billy’s, which touches me.

I go to his last month, December. December 30.

He wrote “Basin” on the day he died. Basin. So casual. Just head to A-Basin, then head home. When you go out to have fun, you are supposed to come home. He didn’t write “Die.” That wasn’t on his schedule.

There were two search-and-rescue Labradors, with little, sponge-like noses. I came to the pass that afternoon and there they were, the dogs, so happy, their triangular faces darting up and down one another’s legs; their entire bodies wagging.

I was tricked by their happiness. I had already been told Cully had died, but when I saw the dogs, I felt such relief, like someone had moved a gun away from my temple. It lasted a second, this feeling; I was put back into place by absorbing the expressions of those near, by letting my knowledge surface—the dogs were being rewarded for finding what they had been trained to find. There were no voices on the radios, no buzz of snowmobiles; the rescue helicopter had stopped typing overhead. Everything was quiet, and the quiet had to be the loudest thing I had ever heard.

“Where are the others?” I had asked Paul, one of the men on the rescue team. We were standing near the road in about a foot of snow. “Denver?”

“No, Summit Medical Center,” he said.

“Alive?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said. His look seemed to ask,
Is that a problem?
“Minor injuries, so no need to transfer.”