remy

I look again – it’s a girl’s face that I see staring back. She has her hands pressed to the window in a half-comical posture of searching, although I can’t imagine what she’d need to search for at the window when she can simply come in the café and go about her business. When she catches me staring at her, she flinches visibly and pretends to be fixing her hair, although it’s pretty obvious from the red creeping up her neck that she was doing nothing of the sort. She’s got one of those faces that you see everywhere and think you recognize, but it turns out to be a phantasm from a broken memory eons ago, and you turn away forgetting. I realize that I expected it to be Imogene.

I’m here once again, like déjà vu. Sitting at a booth in the café just like yesterday, wondering what I’m doing with my life and feeling like a useless shit as per usual. By this point, I’m used to being unemployed, sometimes even for month-long stretches. Every job I can manage to get, I expect to lose within a few weeks, if I’m even lucky enough to last that long. It’s been nearly a year since I graduated, and this temporary make-do won’t last much longer as a solution.

I sigh as I scroll through my call log. My mother has left exactly twenty-three messages – a sure sign of distress. I imagine her going through her address book frantically and telling all her best friends about my lack of filial piety. This alone is enough to make me return her calls.

She picks up with “Renée? Oh, sweetie, I was wondering when you’d call me!”

“Sorry,” I mutter sheepishly, but I don’t offer an excuse. I’m too ashamed of myself to even try, after these seven long months.

“Are you still touring the country?”

“You could say that.” I drum my fingers uncomfortably. “I mean, you know how it is. Not much market for an art major.”

“Listen to you,” my mother chuckles. “You didn’t listen in high school when I told you the same thing.”

“I don’t regret it. I’m just trying to figure things out.”

“If that’s what you want, Renée.” There’s a pause before she adds, hesitantly, “You know our doors are always open.”

“I know,” I say, but my voice cracks slightly. I wince at this. “Anyway, I’m in the Midwest now, I’m not even sure which state. A small town. I’ll probably stay here awhile.”

“You’re not coming home?”

“Not now.”

She sighs. “Your father and I would be willing to help you.”

“I know. I need to go off on my own for a bit.”

“Stubborn, as usual,” she says, and laughs.

The memory strikes me like a sudden whisper that erupts into lightning. I’m five years old and running through wild grass that is taller than the sky itself. The marshland underneath my feet almost gives way until I stumble through the clearing of cattails where two boys are poking sticks in the mud. They can’t be much older than me, but they already have the haughty pride of mobsters. My brother stands to one side, bashful but eager to please, and I step forward with the intention of joining them, my scraggly bangs whipping through the air. I can feel the dirt and brackish swamp water in my mouth once again, a fragment that sticks in my mind. I remember being pushed down and taunted, and spitting out a mouthful with defiant, watering eyes.

It’s in this state of mind that I wander outside, shove my hands in my pockets, wait for something to happen. I don’t know why the notion follows me, this feeling that a grand adventure will come along and pick me up, sail me through the deserted alleyways and lush verdure of my homeland. I thought I was taking initiative when I packed my bags on graduation day; what am I doing having second thoughts now? What is it that I want?

For whatever reason, I’m feeling retrospective. I pause at the door of a vintage toymaker and fall through the idyllic pages of childhood again. It’s ironic: I didn’t realize how different I was from everyone for the longest time, and now that I have, I deny it. As if by pretending they have no control over me, I can find a way to control myself.

When was the first time? This I wonder as I watch two girls skipping after one another, red-cheeked and guileless. Perhaps a play date, since they look nothing alike. I imagine their parents teasing about puppy love and young romance and smile wryly. It’s ludicrous, after all. I stop and lean against a lamppost as I watch them go by, even offering a little wave as the mother smiles in my direction. The first time was fourth grade. It was Valentine’s Day.

No one had explained the etiquette of valentine giving, which, frankly, I never knew existed till that year. Our thoughts were still affixed on Legos and afternoon snacks, the next sleepover or a visit to the zoo. Maybe that’s why it came as such a shock. Her eyes found mine amidst the sound of crumpling foil and giggling. In the moment before she started to scream, before she tore my letter to shreds, before she ran out the classroom and had to be consoled by the teacher and finally taken home, I knew there was nothing. They were clammy.

“Weirdo,” she’d whispered with revulsion.

The first betrayal in my life was a landmark for all the others soon to come. You’d think they’d hurt less as you get used to it, but it’s not the case. I developed a knack for keeping myself secret, and a habit of cracking my knuckles, quick to anger and quicker to swing.

I sigh and start to head towards Greg and my meeting spot. It’s the parking lot behind the café, but I’ve already walked a circle around a good quarter of the town.

For a visual learner, I have unbelievable coordination. So it’s no surprise that I’m lost – or, well, it shouldn’t be, after the millionth time it’s happened on vacation and even in my own neighborhood.

“Shit,” I mutter.

“Damn straight,” a voice says irritably behind me.

“Speak for yourself,” I tell him, knowing it’s Greg. “What are you doing here?”

“I knew you probably got lost,” he says. “Why you can’t follow a simple set of directions, I’ll never be able to figure out. Come on. Let’s go.”

“I wasn’t lost,” I lie.

“Obviously. That’s why you’re halfway across town and heading into suburbia. Just shut up for a bit, won’t you, Remy?”

I follow him sullenly, scuffing my boots on the sidewalk. They don’t come this clean in New York. They’ve hardly been spit on here, and you can actually see the tannish-gray underneath the soot and sun bleaching. Everything’s laughably quaint here, but even the dorkiness is appealing. I suddenly want to draw it. I shuffle around in my bag for a pencil, but my fingers come out blackened by a crushed piece of charcoal. Another two dollars wasted.

“Hey,” Greg says, slowing so that I’m walking shoulder to shoulder with him. His demeanor is nervous now, which makes me doubly nervous.

“Hey what?”

“I was wondering... do you have any plans after we leave town?”

I stare at him and come to a complete stop. “What?”

He turns with a perplexed glance, and then shakes his head. “God, I didn’t mean... Let’s try this again: where are you gonna go after this?”

“I guess I don’t have any particular preference,” I say warily.

He sighs gustily and starts walking again, but doesn’t reply.

“What is it?”

“I’ll work it out. It’s between me and my girlfriend.”

“You have a girlfriend?”

He shoots his best death glare at me, which makes me smile.

“Really, though.” I catch up easily and try to block his view. “What is it?”

“Well,” he begins uncertainly. “You’re not settled, you know – sort of wandering around. And that’s fine, since you seem to be fine with it, but I have stuff at home to take care of.”

I don’t get it. “So do I. I mean, I wish I were more settled.”

“Oh.”

“What’s the deal, though? What’s going on with your girlfriend?”

“She wants me to go back,” he says. He has this expectant, guilty look, like I should be mad.

“Okay,” I say. “Alright. So?”

“So I can’t drive you around anymore, Remy. I have to go back to Chicago and you have to continue on your own.”

I can’t think. All that comes out of my mouth is, “That’s fine.”

“How are you going to get around?”

“Bus? Train? Levitation? Who knows.” I trudge along numbly. It’s not as if this is a crushing realization – not really. Not when I’m so spontaneous that I might have ended up a street-artist ages ago. The last support has been knocked over; now I’m waiting for the sensation of free-fall. My mind buzzes.

“I’ll take you back to Chicago.”

“Sure,” I say. “What am I going to do in Chicago?”

“I don’t know. Sell your paintings?”

“No one wants that shit, Greg.” I refrain from informing him that I don’t paint.

“I’m sorry, Remy.”

“It’s not your fault. I shouldn’t be imposing on you.”

“You’re my friend.”

“And you’re mine, but I haven’t done anything for you.” We reach his car, just behind the café, and he clambers into the driver’s seat and turns the ignition. I set one foot in myself, but then something shifts, I can see it in the corner of my eye. I look for it through the stale city-life and catch a glimpse of her, walking along the street but moving away. It clicks.

“Come on, I’ll drive you back,” Greg says, but I’m barely listening now.

“Look,” I tell him urgently, digging through my wallet. I pull out several bills of who-knows-what value and shove them in his hands. “That’s for the gas. I know what I’m doing now. And thanks for driving me.”

“What?” His guilt turns to alarm. “Where are you going?”

“I’m going to see a friend,” I tell him as I slam the door shut and break into a run. I hear his door open behind me.

“What the hell are you doing, Remy?” he yells over the traffic.

“I don’t know,” I shout back.

All I know is that even though I have nothing left, Imogene is still here.

imogene

“He said he might stay here awhile,” I insist, even though Monique has long dissolved into laughter on the other side of the phone.

“Darling, you have got to be kidding me,” she gasps.

“There’s nothing wrong with – ” I don’t even know how to complete the sentence, which only makes her laugh harder. I thank God once again that she can’t see my flush, and shift my phone to the other shoulder as I dig inside my messenger bag for my notebook. I’m sitting cross-legged on my bed with the covers pulled to my chin, unable to resist telling my best friend all about this recent encounter. It’s silent except for the faraway echoes of a train; the whole complex must be asleep.

“Immy, you’re too much.” Another giggle escapes before she finally calms enough to form a coherent sentence. “You’ve seen this guy how many times? And suddenly you’re head-over-heels?”

“It’s not like that,” I tell her. “I just want to get to know him. I mean... he was really cute.”

“What type?”

“Type? We’re talking types now? Oh... I don’t know!”

“A bit flustered, aren’t we.” Now she’s smug. “Something tells me you’re not really experienced in this area, are you?”

“Not as much as you, that’s for sure.”

“I’ll take that. What did he look like?”

“Skinny,” I admit. “Gorgeous smile, though. He looked like an angel. An awkward angel.”

“Awkward angel?” Monique asks incredulously. “You’re one hell of a poet, Im.”

“Don’t tell me you’ve never made sappy analogies!” I cover my face with my duvet, forgetting again that she can’t see me. This makes her laugh again, but now it’s softer, like a marshmallow dissolving in hot chocolate.

“I’m happy for you, really,” she says. “You’ve got to introduce us sometime so I can see this ‘angel’ for myself.”

“Will do.”

“But don’t get too involved right now.” I hear the click and sigh of a door being opened, and then rustling. “Getting into these things too quickly is never good.”

The conversation strays, and I lose the thread of it until Monique takes her leave for the evening to call her boyfriend. I finally find the notebook I dropped earlier peeking out from between cramped binders and folders, and pull it out. My notes are still surprisingly legible, even on the pages that landed in the mud. On the side, one of my ‘b’s has been smudged to look like a heart.

I stretch out on the bed. I feel distracted, restless. I want to rush outside and find adventures on the smoky boulevards of the city, or take the stars one at a time like stepping-stones to the moon. The night feels like a beginning rather than an end, for some reason, despite the fact that I’m usually asleep by now, I’m wide-awake.

Suddenly energetic, I pick up my phone again and start dialing a number I could recite in my sleep. It’s a call I’ve been meaning to make for months, yet keep putting off just as I reach for the phone. My heart pounds as I dial; I don’t know what’s driving me to do it. Maybe it’s the need to hear him once more, although I still don’t know whether it’s because I’ve forgiven him or because I haven’t. The line rings twice before connecting (and before I can back out), and the warm voice of my father fills my ear.

“Hello?”

“Dad?”

“Hey, Genie!” He sounds so pleased that it pierces me. “I haven’t heard from you in a while.”

“Sorry, I’ve been so busy,” I say, not altogether truthfully. “How have you been?”

“Great! We’ve decided to get a puppy sometime soon, so we’d love to have you over to see her.”

‘We,’ of course, refers to him and his new partner, Dale – the one he began seeing while my mother was busy attending to her flourishing business and ailing sister. Even though it shouldn’t, his happiness feels like an offense compared to my mother’s obvious heartache; his attempts at reconciliation feel downright insensitive. I know my mother’s misery is none of his business now, but it doesn’t stop me from feeling resentful. The bitterness bubbles to the surface, and I mask it with exaggerated cheerfulness.

“That’s wonderful,” I gush. “Does she have a name?”

“Not yet – we have to see her, first.” His excitement is almost childlike, and I experience a stab of loneliness for no reason at all.

“Sure. Maybe I’ll visit sometime.” I pray for the contrary.

“Come on over! Any time is a good time.” Another voice begins in the background; not one that I’ve heard often, but that I can pick out immediately. I switch ears and close my eyes, beginning to regret this phone call. I can’t stand to hear them right now, not when it should be my mother calling him ‘dear’ and ‘darling.’ I cut him short just as he begins on the topic of their new apartment.

“Sounds awesome!” I say. “Anyway, I just wanted to say hi, you know. I should be getting to bed and all, so I’ll call you sometime earlier during the day, okay?” I’m careful to leave out the specifics.

“Alright, Genie,” he replies, sounding defeated. “Take good care of yourself.”

“You too, Dad.”

“Don’t forget to have some fun.”

“I know.”

“You are alright, aren’t you?” he asks anxiously, as an afterthought. “You’re holding up okay?”

“Of course I am,” I reassure him. I know I’m being sulky, that my moroseness is unjustified, but I can’t help feeling hurt that he hasn’t yet asked me how I am, what I’m doing, when I’ll see him. I want him to ask even though I wouldn’t answer anyway.

“My little Genie,” he says fondly, and he’s brightened again.

“Good night, Dad.”

“Good night, honey.”

I’m alone once more. I know I shouldn’t have made that call, yet I did it anyway. My stomach clenches at the thought of meeting Dad and his new significant other, at this other man who’s intruded in my life. I can’t help being sickened as I throw down my phone and clamber off my bed, heading towards the one window on the other side of the room to collect my thoughts. The light outside suffuses the city with a quiet warmth unlike anything I’ve ever seen, like gossamer-spun webs that trace their delicate paths around the rooms of every grown-up and child. They look like dreams.

I climb into my bed again reluctantly, but this time I feel like I could fall asleep right away. The patterns of the moon dance on my ceiling in a comforting ballet; I bask in their soothing luminescence and feel my eyes close. But when sleep washes over me, it’s not the gentleness of a nostalgic dream that envelops me, but the distorted illusion of a nightmare.

In my dream, I’m walking along the shore of an impressionistic sea, dotted with all the colors of the rainbow. There is someone next to me, holding my hand, but I don’t turn to look at him. I know I love him, but I also know I’m afraid. His footsteps are parallel to mine as we create a trail around the edges of the water. I imagine a giant gingerbread cutout and squeeze the hand in mine.

Imogene, says the figure next to me, I have to tell you something.

What is it? I ask.

I’m not who you think I am, the figure tells me. There is sadness in his voice as he turns to face me; I keep my eyes lowered, concentrating instead on the sand between my toes.

I know, I say, but it’s only Dream-Me who knows. I’m a confused spectator watching the scene from inside my own body.

Listen, Immy, the figure says, I’ve hidden it from you all this time because I thought you couldn’t possibly love me if you found out.

I turn as well and find him on his knees. What? What do you mean?

I can’t hide it any longer.

I don’t understand, I say, my panic rising.

Look at me. The figure clasps both my hands in his, and I slowly lift my eyes to his. They are very nearly golden, as if backlit by the dying tide as well as the sun in the distance. His smile is sincere, but self-conscious, and he looks for all the world like he is saying goodbye.

What is it? I repeat, my heart pounding. What do you want to tell me?

I’m not like you, he says urgently. There’s something you have to understand – I can’t explain it – I haven’t been completely honest with you...

I begin to back away in spite of myself. Please, just tell me! I cry, but he ignores me.

...I’m different, you see – no, I’m the same – I’m the same in every way but one – because I love you...

My hands fly to my ears, but the voice is even in my head. It’s repeating itself like broken clockwork, a crackling gramophone that nevertheless has me at its whims.

...don’t you see – I can’t – won’t you come back – I love you! I love you! I love you!

Stop it! I shout. Shut up! Just shut up! I don’t know you!

There is nothing but silence and the crashing of tides. I begin to think he’s disappeared for good, and let my arms drop to my sides. Cautiously, I look to my left and see his beseeching expression.

When I look again, it’s a girl’s face that I see staring back.

remy

I sit clutching my tea and counting the scarlet sedans that passed the window, secretly condemning each and every one of the drivers for their ostentation. The red is making my goddamn eyes hurt, and it’s not even 10 AM. What is with this city and red? Hell, even the logo of this café has got red all over it. Red, the color of blood, lipstick, and other cliché phenomena. Also the title of half a million romance novels and half a million more pop songs, maybe even some fifth grade poetry.

I sip my tea. It’s making my stomach churn just thinking about it.

It’s not that I’m bitter or anything, I tell myself. It’s not like I was fired again for some inane reason like “obfuscating my time card” when I was only a half-an-hour late, once. The injustice stings, but only because it’s so petty. Their reasons are far too obvious, and it annoys me doubly that they don’t even bother to give a legitimate excuse. I see a kid stumble on the sidewalk outside and start bawling, and I think to myself, I can tell this is going to be a long day.

“Well, look who’s here,” a voice says dryly next to me. I turn to find Greg spinning his car keys on his finger. “I thought you said you wouldn’t get into trouble this time.” He’s got this lazy smirk on his face that somehow also manages to be exasperated. I know he means well, but I want to punch him all the same.

“I didn’t,” I say defensively.

“Sure,” he says, “just like you didn’t throw a stapler at that last guy who got on your nerves.”

“He didn’t get on my nerves; he fucking insulted me,” I growl. I keep the insult to myself, though. There’s no need to let everyone in the coffee shop hear my pitiful woes.

“Keep it down, Rem.”

“Oh, shut up.”

“People are staring.”

I glance over my shoulder. Sure enough, a cluster of elderly women on the other side of the room look scandalized at my profanity.

“Whoops,” I say.

Greg settles into the seat beside me and leans on the counter, taking my cup from my fidgety hands. He’s frowning now, and he raises an eyebrow when he sees me cross my arms.

“Don’t give me that look. You know you’ll never stay employed if you keep losing your temper.”

“I was perfectly in the right.”

“As much as I wish that would make things easier for you, it doesn’t.” He sets down the cup almost sternly. “So, without resorting to violence now, what exactly happened?”

I lean forward to inspect a mangy dog urinating on the side of a fire hydrant. It doesn’t have a collar, and by the looks of it, hasn’t ever had one. Its whiskers are clumped with filth from sniffing about the streets of the city, but it prances along happily all the same. Before long, another generous passerby offers it a tidbit, and it continues along the sidewalk with its tail wagging. I stare stubbornly ahead and start rolling my cup around in my hands again.

“Seriously.”

“Seriously what?”

“What happened?”

 “Don’t you have somewhere to be?” I hedge this with a sidelong glare, insinuating that he is disturbing my peace.

“They found out?”

Not thirty minutes after I’d gotten to work that day. I couldn’t help noticing as I walked into the manager’s office that his face was the color of a ripe tomato, and he had a nervous tic between his eyes. He didn’t look at me the whole time, only smiled with thinly veiled contempt as he informed me I would no longer be working for them. But that’s not the part that sticks most in my mind, of course. It’s what he said afterwards that struck me to my very core. It’s the loathing I saw as I passed by his door for the last time – not even loathing for me, but for such a minute part of me that wasn’t like him.

“It’s nothing,” I say.

“Look – ”

“I don’t want any more of your patronizing sympathy,” I hiss, and I grab my tea and bag off of the chair. “You know where to find me. I’m not coming back to this place.”

“Give it a chance,” Greg says wearily, and it makes me feel guilty. “I’m trying, alright? Just be a bit more patient. They’re not used to people like you.”

“Who are people like me?” The venom is back.

“I didn’t mean – ”

“I think you did. And really? I appreciate your favors and everything, but don’t pretend you’re any different than the rest of them. I’m the same as any of you, Greg, and I wish you could get it in your head.”

I leave the café already regretting what I said. I know he means well, and a friend who would help me through so much bullshit is rare to find. But the rage boiling inside of me wanted a target, not the right target. And what will it help anyway? I can pull aside anyone in this godforsaken little town, and I could guarantee their reaction to me, if they only knew. I want to storm out of the state, maybe out of the country. I want to find some place where I can drown in the rivers of people parading down the streets, engrossed in their own dreams, jobs, lives. I feel like a clownfish masquerading as a salmon, trying to swim upstream.

I’m so lost in my reverie and fuming so blindly that I crash full on into something that sends me reeling. I stumble backwards and realize there are papers scattered all over the walk, and some notebooks are even laying facedown in the mud. A girl – presumably the one I collided with so unceremoniously – is picking them up and apologizing profusely.

“I’m so sorry, I really should have looked where I was going,” she babbles. “I was distracted, talking on my phone and all that, if I hadn’t been, this wouldn’t have happened – ”

“No, I’m the one who should be sorry,” I say, and scramble to retrieve her things out of the slush clogging the streets. “Your notebook is soaked. God, I’m so stupid.”

She glances at me as she’s still kneeling, and I can’t help noticing that she has the loveliest eyes I’ve ever seen. One is slightly grayer than the other, which makes it look almost violet, and they’re both flecked with a blue in the center that reminds me of nothing so much as the sky on a quiet early morning. She’s smiling at me now, one side slightly higher than the other, and she brushes back her sandy-colored hair in a nervous gesture.

“It’s alright,” she stammers. “I didn’t need those notes anyway.”

“You didn’t need – ” I flip to the cover of the notebook I’m holding. “Multivariable calculus?”

She blushes now; an odd reaction. “I can just read the textbook.” She gets to her feet and brushes off her skirt, still appraising me in that coy, fearful way. I realize I’m still holding her papers and give them to her foolishly.

“Thanks,” she says like she wants to say something else.

“You’re welcome,” I say, because my mind has gone blank.

She turns to go, but thinks better of it, and gazes sheepishly at me. “I haven’t seen you here before. It’s a small town and I know most people here, so...”

“I’m sort of a nomad,” I tell her. “I mean, I haven’t been here long. I move around a lot.”

“Cool.” Another quick look accompanied by a smile. “My name is Imogene, by the way.”

I grin as well. “Nice to meet you, Imogene. I’m Remy.”

“I guess you’ll be moving on soon?” she hedges. For some reason, I want to hope there’s disappointment behind her question. There’s an earnestness behind her demeanor that I haven’t encountered in a long time, and it makes me want to trust her. My rationale screams at me from the back of my mind; I know she’s more likely than not got nothing in common with me. I know that she probably wouldn’t be so open if she knew why exactly I’m a nomad. The inquisitive air hangs, then fades as I begin to agree that, yes, I’ll be leaving in the morning. But what comes out of my mouth is entirely unexpected.

“Actually,” I say, catching myself by surprise, “I might stay here awhile after all.”