“Your father knows too. Birdie didn’t get the whole story, but I guess our parents have been back and forth on the phone since last night.”
“They have? Well, at least they know we haven’t been kidnapped or anything. I’m assuming your parents would care.” I was not overjoyed to notice June hovering in the background, ready to swoop down and cart Marisol off the second we stopped talking.
“I guess I’ll call them in the morning, before I leave,” Marisol said. She glanced at June. “If there’s time.”
I heard her say, “I,” not “we,” but I refused to give it any significance. “We’re leaving in the morning? I thought you said the bus left at three?”
Marisol sneaked another look at June, and I couldn’t help turning around too. June was smiling.
“Gio, I’m not going back to Boston with you tomorrow. I’m going to New York City with June and Sarah and B.J.”
“What? You can’t!” I was as shocked as if she’d announced she was about to elope with Birdie. She was leaving me, just like that.
“Of course I can.” She turned to June. “You know what? I’ll meet you back at the cabin later. I need to talk to Gio alone for a minute.”
“Okay,” June said, grudgingly. “But don’t miss read-and-rest time.”
“What is this, Camp Gitchy Goomy?” I yelled at her. “She’ll read-and-rest when she feels like reading and resting!” Upset as I was, I was glad to see that June looked pissed off as she walked away. I hated her now for certain.
Marisol touched my arm lightly, and it jerked as though she’d hit me with a stick. “Let’s take a little walk.” She started down the street, and I followed, of course. What else could I do?
“I don’t believe you’re running off with her,” I said, once we’d gotten half a block down the road. “You hardly know her. What’s so great about her, anyway?” I hated the whiny note in my voice, like a little kid arguing not to be left behind with the baby-sitter, on the verge of tears.
“It’s not June’s fault. I’m not even interested in her.”
“Then why are you going to New York? You haven’t even graduated from high school yet!”
“I’ve only got two weeks left. I’m a G and T senior with an acceptance to Stanford. You think they won’t let me graduate? My mother’s on the board of my school, for God’s sake.”
“But why now? I don’t get it!”
“Because I have the opportunity now. I like these women, and they invited me to stay with them for a while. Maybe I’ll only stay a few weeks. Maybe more. I don’t know. I have to do this, Gio. I have to see who I am without my parents hovering over me. Or you.”
“Can’t you do that at Stanford?” I knew I was begging pathetically, but I couldn’t stop myself.
“Gio,” she said sadly. Her black nails closed a circle around my wrist like delicate handcuffs. “I’m at escape velocity right now. I have to go.”
She actually let me take her hand, and we walked on a little farther in silence, then stopped to look at the bay splash up between two beach houses.
“I liked the poem, Gio.”
“You did? You liked it?”
She nodded. “It scared me a little, but that’s all right. It was true.” She laughed lightly. “How did this happen?”
“What?”
“That you’re my best friend?”
Her hand felt like the part of me I was missing. “The problem is,” I said, “it’s hard for me to be your best friend now that—”
“Stop! Don’t say it!” She pulled her hand away from mine and stuck it up in my face as if to block my words.
“Even if it’s true?”
She didn’t answer me. We stood there, staring at each other for what seemed like ages, her black eyes piercing me, until finally I looked away.
“Let’s go back now,” she said, turning. I followed, leaving more and more space between us as we walked. There was no more holding hands.
* * *
After grilled hot dogs and veggie-burgers (something for everyone) Diana got her guitar out again, and Bill asked her to do some old Simon and Garfunkel stuff. Most people knew the songs and they sang along, but you could hear Diana’s voice over everyone else’s, leading the way.
I didn’t sing. How could I sing? All I could do was stare across the campfire at Marisol, who was deserting me. She was sitting between the pillars of Sarah and June, and I couldn’t help feeling they were guarding her. Keeping away the insensitive beasts: men.
How could this be happening? When I looked back to my life before Marisol, it seemed completely blank. Erased. Whited out. What had I done then? Who had I been? Who could I be now, without her? What would I do? Let Brian and Emily fix me up with freshmen blind dates? No, I’d sit alone in my room, writing drivel that nobody wanted to read. Goopy poems that were too embarrassing to print in a zine. Probably I’d be locked in a room over at Grandma’s Haunted House; Al would tell Mom, “It’s for his own good we keep it locked,” and she’d readily agree. Wouldn’t want him walking around touching people.
I looked around the circle at everybody clapping hands and singing. Even though I’d been alone all my life, I’d never really felt it like this before. I wished just for once I could be at the center, like Diana, who could touch everyone with her voice and hold them close. At some point it was just too painful to watch all those joyful people, so I lay back in the sand, looking up at the stars, and that was a little better. The stars seemed pretty lonesome too.
After a couple more sing-alongs, Diana said she wanted to do one of her favorite songs, one most people probably wouldn’t know. It was by a folk singer named Bob Franke who she’d once seen perform. I’d kind of had it with all these warm group feelings, and was about to head for Pumpkin and put my head under the pillow, but when I sat up, Diana was looking right at me, and I knew she wanted me to stay and listen.
“This song is a little bit sad, but beautiful too,” she said. “It’s called ‘Hard Love.’”
Amazing. I would almost have thought Diana knew what was going on between Marisol and me, knew about my whole life, because the song seemed like it was written just for me. The first verses were about growing up in a home where love was hurtful and difficult, and then it segued into something very much like my current messed-up situation.
“It was hard love, every step of the way,
Hard to be so close to you, so hard to turn away,
And when all the stars and sentimental songs dissolved today,
There was nothing left to sing about but hard love.
So I loved you for your courage and your gentle
sense of shame,
And I loved you for your laughter
and your language and your name,
And I knew it was impossible, but I loved you just the same,
Though the only love I gave to you was hard love.”
Diana’s voice was beautiful, but I felt like the song was chewing me up. I didn’t dare look at Marisol. Hard to be so close to you, so hard to turn away. I pulled my knees up and let my head fall down on them so that nobody accidentally looking at my face could see the song had, somehow, been written just for me … I knew it was impossible, but I loved you just the same. I was not the only person to ever feel so tortured. Somebody had written this song; it had happened to somebody else. It occurred to me suddenly it had even happened to my mother.
“So I’ll tell you that I love you even though I’m far away,
And I’ll tell you how you change me as I live from day to day,
How you help me to accept myself and I won’t forget to say,
Love is never wasted, even when it’s hard love.
Yes it’s hard love, but it’s love all the same,
Not the stuff of fantasy but more than just a game.
And the only kind of miracle that’s worthy of the name,
For the love that heals our lives is mostly hard love.”
The love that heals our lives. While
everybody was applauding Diana and whooping and yelling for another song, that one line kept circling back through my head. I didn’t feel healed—I felt destroyed—and still I knew it was true. I slipped away from the group quietly, without a plan, but as soon as I realized I was headed for the office, I knew what I was going to do.
“Mom? It’s me,” I said when she answered the phone.
“Johnny! Oh, thank God. Where are you?” She turned away from the phone and announced, “It’s him!” Al must have been standing right there.
“I’m on Cape Cod. Didn’t Marisol’s mother tell you?”
“Yes, but where on Cape Cod? What are you doing?”
“We’re at a conference, but I can’t tell you exactly where, because you’d have to tell her parents. I can’t tell you anything about Marisol’s plans. It doesn’t matter anyway. I’m coming home tomorrow on the bus. I should get to Darlington about seven o’clock in the evening.”
I could hear some whispers on her end of the line. “Johnny. John,” Mom said. “Al and I have been talking, and we’ve decided it doesn’t make sense to move out of Darlington for your last year of school. Al can make the trips back and forth to help his mother when she needs him. We’ll stay in our house until you leave for college. How does that sound? Is that okay?” Her voice was thick and wobbly.
“I know I’ve made a lot of mistakes, Johnny. We never talked about things, and—”
“Mom,” I interrupted. “I don’t hate you. That’s mostly why I called. I’m sorry about the letter.”
She burst into tears. “Oh, sweetheart, I’m sorry! I know I haven’t been a good mother. I didn’t know—I thought you had your father. I didn’t know until he told me …”
I really couldn’t stand listening to the crying; it was making me feel sick. “You’ve been okay. It wasn’t your fault,” I told her. But I don’t think she heard me. There was some clunking on the other end of the line, and then Al came on.
“John? It’s Al. Your mom’s kind of upset right now.”
“I know. The letter. I’m sorry,” I repeated. I was ready for the guy to lay into me, but he didn’t.
“She feels … responsible. But as long as you two are talking now, you can fix it. It’ll be all right.”
He sounded so reasonable, I didn’t know what to say. I thought he’d be mad at me for writing all those awful things to Mom.
“Your friend Brian was here most of the morning. He and his girlfriend were poring over this map of Cape Cod like it was going to tell them where you were. He was ready to organize a search party, get out the bloodhounds. That’s a good friend you’ve got there, John.”
“Yeah, I guess so,” I said. It was funny to think of the four of them, the two perfect couples, sitting around worrying about me like that … even old Emily. Of course she was probably hoping they could rent a limo to come look for me.
“Maybe you could give Brian a call. Let him know I’m … coming back.”
“I certainly will,” Al said.
“Thanks.” I was trying to remember if I’d ever had a conversation with Al before. Not one where I actually listened to what he was saying. He wasn’t a bad guy.
“I should tell you, John, your dad is pretty upset too. Angry, I should say.”
The hair on my scalp prickled. “Angry? What’s he got to be angry about?”
“I shouldn’t get into it. It’s none of my business. Here, I think your mother can talk again now. So, I’ll see you soon. Thanks for calling home, John.” He was off before I could respond.
“Johnny? About your father,” Mom said, her voice low and scratchy now. “He feels you’re not being fair to him and—”
“Fair? He’s got a nerve talking about fair!”
“I wish I’d known how you felt,” she said, sighing. “None of us have done a very good job of communicating with each other.”
“Mom, I’m sorry I sent you the letter, but I’m not sorry I sent one to him. I don’t care if I never see him again.”
“We’ll talk about it when you get home. But, Johnny, it wasn’t all his fault. I wasn’t the right wife for him. I know that now. Sometimes you just fall in love with the wrong person.”
What could I say to that? Hard love hits again.
“I should go,” I told her. There was a shadowy figure standing outside the door, and I thought it might be Marisol. “I’ll be home tomorrow night. Don’t worry.”
She started to cry again. “Thank you for calling me, Sweetheart. Thank you …” I hung up, feeling like I’d just scaled an enormous mountain and was too weak now to go down the other side. The office screen door banged behind me, but when I turned around, it wasn’t Marisol.
“Are you all right?” Diana asked.
I wish I could say I was happy to see her, but I wasn’t; I was disappointed she wasn’t Marisol. “Yeah. I just called my mother. It’s a long story.”
She smiled. “I know. You told me some of it in your letter.”
“Right. Listen, I’m gonna turn in now. I’m kind of beat.” She stood quietly as I passed her on the way to the door.
“In your letter you didn’t tell me you were in love with Marisol.”
I would have laughed if I hadn’t felt like throwing up. “You didn’t tell me you could read minds either.”
“It wasn’t that hard.”
I nodded. “So you know what a jackass I am.”
Diana stomped her foot angrily. “John, weren’t you listening to my song? I played it for you!”
Oh, man. On the one hand Diana made me feel so good, being there and caring about me, and on the other hand I felt miserable that she wasn’t Marisol. “I guess I knew you did,” I told her. “It’s a great song, and you sang it beautifully. Thanks.” I considered the short distance between us, how easy it would be to bend down and kiss her. There was no question that she’d let me. But it was impossible.
She smiled and ducked her head in that shy way she had the night before. “John, when you get home, will you write to me sometimes?”
“Of course I will,” I said. “Will you write me back?”
She nodded. “I’m better in letters. I can say what I really mean. You know, the magic words.”
I put my hand on her shoulder and gave it a squeeze. She wasn’t so bad in person either, but I wasn’t ready to say that out loud.
“Good night,” I said. “See you tomorrow.” Tomorrow was as far ahead as I thought either of us should hope.
Chapter Seventeen
I didn’t sleep much. As soon as the first sliver of light edged through the dinky curtains, I was up. I had another eight hours—a whole working day—to spend out here with these people, and I intended to make it a worthwhile day. I’d pick up copies of all the zines in the piles in the office and meet as many of the writers as possible. It would be a day to start over.
But I wasn’t fooling myself either. I was up early because I didn’t want Marisol to escape without at least saying good-bye. For all I knew, she’d never come back to Boston, or wouldn’t tell me when she did. By the time there was a gleam of light skimming across the water, I was bundled up against the chilly morning and walking on the beach. I hoped nobody like Bill or Diana would spy me and come out to keep me company, but no one did. A deserted beach at dawn was the perfect place to nurse my feelings of desolation, to let them trot out a little bit, like a kid plays with the breaking waves, then pull them back inside for another close inspection.
I was just beginning to feel the cold when I heard a door slam up on deck. I walked around to see who it was; sure enough, Sarah and B.J. were carrying their gear out to the street to stow it in an old station wagon. I climbed partway up the stairs and waited. June was the next person out the door, looking half awake and grumpy.
“I don’t see why we can’t hang around for breakfast,” she complained. “I’m hungry.”
“I told you, I’ve got a meeting this afternoon,” Sarah said. “We’ll stop along the way for coffee.”
Just then Marisol emerged from Queen Victoria, pack on her back. She stood on the deck and looked around, like maybe she was searching for somebody. And there I was.
“Could we talk for just a minute?” I asked.
“I don’t know.” She looked a little discombobulated. “Sarah’s in a hurry. Let me ask her.” She walked quickly over to the other three, and I watched the discussion. June turned around to give me the hairy eyeball, but Sarah nodded, and Marisol hoisted her pack into the car and ran back to where I was waiting. Seeing her like that, running toward me, as if she was choosing me, really tore me up. I could have screamed. Why couldn’t that be the truth?
“Not too long. They’re in a hurry,” she said.
“Come down here. I don’t feel like having an audience,” I told her. She followed me down the steps to the beach.
“I just wanted to say good-bye to you. In case we don’t see each other for a while.”
“Gio, I’m not vanishing,” she said, being careful to look out over the water instead of at me.
“No? It feels like you are.”
“Gio …” She sighed in frustration. “You knew from the beginning …”
“I know, I know. But this isn’t the beginning anymore. I didn’t mean for this to happen.”
She looked me straight in the eyes, one of those looks that turned me into an invertebrate from the first day I saw her at Tower Records. “Gio, you’ve meant a lot to me. And I’d like to be able to remember this as a good thing. Just because we can’t …,” she searched for the words a minute and then gave up. “That doesn’t mean it wasn’t important.”
“Was it important?” I asked, needing to hear her say it again and again.
She laughed a little then, trying to lighten things up. “Of course it was! You know you’re the only boyfriend I’ve ever had!”
But I couldn’t laugh. Marisol was the first person, the only person I’d ever been in love with. And she was escaping.