Right Where You Left Me Read online

  The back steps feel as substantial as kindling. I don’t dare lean against the railing, but I need something to prop me up.

  Josh sits on the top stair, which miraculously remains intact. He’s wearing this army-green jacket that I love. It’s buttoned all the way up with these small pewter buttons embossed with a design I can’t make out. I’ve never been close enough. I want to feel each one, work them through the fabric. I should return to the kitchen before I make a fool of myself. I’m not convinced I can keep my hands to myself.

  “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. “About your dad. Any news?”

  I take a seat and a long sip of soda—a gulp, really. The stairs are smaller than I thought, and I wind up closer to him than I intend. He doesn’t move away. He actually inches closer.

  It’s an eagle, in silhouette, on his buttons.

  “I’m trying not to think about it. Megan told me to stay positive, but it’s hard when I’m terrified that he’s never going to come home.”

  “Okay,” he says, smiling and picking at the label on his beer, peeling back the corner. I want him to do the same to my shirt. “How’s that working out for you?”

  “Miserable failure.”

  From this high up, I can see most of the block, yards filled with paper lanterns, container gardens, and clotheslines. Lights twinkle from the base of Bernal Hill. This part of the city feels so charged, so full of life. Bolder colors and personalities than in my quiet, foggy neighborhood.

  Josh nudges me with his elbow. He stares at his hands, not at me. “You know, I didn’t expect to see you here tonight. I don’t think of you as the partying type. I’m glad you came.”

  “What type am I?” I’m able to look at him for longer than five seconds without feeling faint. A miracle.

  “I haven’t figured that out yet,” he says right before draining his beer and wiping his mouth on his sleeve. Who knew one could envy clothing.

  We’ve been in the same English class for three years. He’s always been a distraction, cute and outspoken and daring—not dangerous like Emma and Isaac think. But it wasn’t until he joined the paper last year that he occupied more and more space in my head. He signed a lease and now resides there permanently.

  Then multimedia camp at Berkeley. For the first time, we sat together at meals, groggy in the morning and totally awake at dinner. We talked nonstop. I couldn’t help myself with him. He lifted the spell that cursed my house with silence. He coaxed me out, patient and listening—really listening. When my sentences trailed off, he stopped and asked me to complete my thoughts. He was curious and paid attention and has those eyes and lips, full, and all I wanted to do was touch them with my finger and then my mouth.

  And I did.

  Now he meets my eyes and kisses me again. I don’t dare unbutton his jacket, but I run my fingertip over the pewter, tracing the eagle’s wings. Something about being with him, touching, makes me less self-conscious, like all I care about is skin touching skin. Maybe it’s how he reaches for me, how he puts his hand on the back of my head, his fingers in my hair. The surety of it.

  He pulls away, and I feel so happy—beyond belief crazy happy—but there’s something else in the pit of my stomach, something I hate to admit. Having him want me makes me remember all of the times in my life that I feel unwanted. Like I’m never enough. I can’t let him see this, how suddenly everything feels bittersweet, so I kiss him again. I wish I could say it’s because I’m bold and confident instead of hiding my real feelings.

  He laughs when my lips meet his, like we have an inside joke.

  When he pulls away he says, “I was going to ask if you’d see a movie with me tonight, but I’m stuck here. I’m not at this party by choice. This is my brother’s place, and I stay over when my dad is away for work and my mom has an overnight shift. Nurse. Overprotective. But you should know that I wanted to hang out.”

  I push it down—the insecurity and the fear—so it’s rumbling in my stomach and not tangling my head and heart. “We should do that sometime,” I say casually, as though I’m not such a whirling dervish of emotion. “Do you like staying with your brother?”

  “Yeah,” he says. “I’m going to move in here after graduation. There’s a big age difference between us. Eleven years. Technically, he’s my half brother. He left for college when I was six. We’re really close now, though.” He pauses a second. “Hey, with everything that’s going on with your dad . . . We talked about everything at camp, and I know you have your friends, but I thought . . . maybe . . . you can always talk to me. Or come over. You can just come over and not talk too.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “Really.”

  We sit and look at each other, not knowing what else to say. He reaches for my hand and traces my palm, the inside of each finger, and my body feels entirely new, like a piece of clothing I just bought and am wearing for the first time. I worry I’m breathing too hard. When he kisses me again, I inhale every part of him, every molecule. This time, I don’t have to pretend to be bold.

  I inch closer. My palm remains in his hand.

  He touches my hair, and I can’t control my breathing. “I once tried to count your curls. I sat behind you last year, in English, and every time you moved your head, I had to start over. I think you have an infinite number of curls.”

  “They drive me crazy.”

  “I love them,” he says.

  “You’ve liked me for that long? Since last year?”

  “I’ve liked you for as long as you’ve liked me,” he says, smiling.

  “It was that obvious?” I ask.

  “Yeah, when I joined the paper.”

  I shake my head and smile to myself. Dad taught me to play poker in first grade. I’m the best bluffer in the house. “Sophomore-year English. I liked you for a year before you joined the paper.”

  When he says he’s liked me even longer than that, I can’t tell if he’s joking. I guess it doesn’t matter. Not now.

  “Want a tour of this place? My brother Ian’s a photographer. I don’t think I ever told you that.”

  “No,” I say. “You didn’t. And he lives with that guy Nicholas?”

  “Yeah, worlds colliding. Come on. I need another beer. How about you?” He reaches for my Sprite. “No beer?”

  “I don’t like how it tastes,” I say.

  I can barely squeeze through the kitchen door. The party doubled in size while I was with Josh. I spot about five other seniors mingling in the packed kitchen, only acquaintances. As I struggle through the crowd, someone grabs my hand and pulls me into the next room.

  “There you are,” Emma says. “I’ve been waiting for you to come back.” She sees Josh. “Hi.”

  It’s not that Emma’s unfriendly exactly. She’s cordial. Josh picks up on it and raises a hand like he’s waving hello from across the street or something.

  “Come on, Charlotte,” he says. “I want to show you something.”

  Then Emma mouths, Go. She knows how much I’ve wanted this, his attention, especially with what’s going on with Dad. She doesn’t like him, but she understands how he makes me feel.

  I follow Josh down the hall into the living room, the room I saw from outside. Everyone’s in the kitchen and dining room now, where the food is. We have the living room to ourselves. The color blows me away.

  “Ian calls this aquamarine,” Josh says. “He wants it to look like the beach. He’s making a table out of driftwood.”

  Even though I grew up blocks from the ocean, I’ve never seen water this color. A tropical, clear blue. Between the shape and shade of the room, I feel like I’m swimming.

  Even the old worn couch, low to the ground like a raft on waves, fits in. Black-and-white framed photos cover a part of the wall from floor to ceiling. I walk over to get a better look. They’re landscapes of various beaches, each labeled in gallery signage, spots of the coast starting in Baja and moving north to Washington State. Waves crash in one, and another captures a long stretch of sand. The
y’re haunting in their stillness, but the settings are so distinct.

  “He’s been to all of these places?” I ask.

  Josh nods. “Me too. We went on a road trip last summer. It was incredible. I filmed each beach and then compiled the clips so it looks like one day of low and high tide, but on different beaches. They blend into one another.”

  “You really like making films,” I say, not a question.

  “It’s all I want to do. We’ll see if I get in anywhere, given my many behavior problems and disciplinary actions.” He rolls his eyes. “Good SAT scores can’t balance out suspensions. That’s what Principal Levi says, anyway.” He smiles, but bashfully.

  I can’t think about college, not now with Dad missing. Too much stress. I return my eyes to the beach photos and ask Josh if he has a favorite.

  He doesn’t pause and walks straight to a shot of a crescent-shaped beach surrounded by towering trees where the forest meets the water. “This one. Hug Point, Oregon. Have you been?”

  I shake my head.

  “Put it on your list. At low tide, there are caves filled with shells, and the rocks are round.”

  “Round?”

  Josh heads to a set of bookshelves and returns with a clear bowl filled with what looks like small cannonballs. “Pick one up.”

  It’s heavy, and as I cradle it in my palm, I notice the small holes and ridges. Anywhere else, the rock would have been flat and smooth.

  “How?” I ask.

  “Part of the shore is a slab of rock, so when they roll back and forth, some become perfectly round,” he says. “I became kind of obsessed with them. I brought back a lot. A lot. It amazes me that a rock can go from flat to round. That something can change its shape like that. It made me think of all the things that can evolve, you know? I guess it just takes a ton of patience. I tell myself that, anyway.”

  “I’m not that patient,” I say, thinking of Dad. I clutch the rock hard, squeezing it as I think of all the pictures of crumbled buildings and the injured. The images and anxiety come hard and fast, almost like an assault. Beads of sweat collect along my hairline. My head balloons, and I suddenly feel a little light-headed.

  “Are you okay?” Josh asks.

  “Yeah.” I nod, trying to discreetly take a deep breath. It was a mistake coming here, being with all of these people. Even if Mom ends up hiding in her room all night, I should be home with her.

  “Really?”

  “I’m just tired. I think it’s time for me to go home. You know, with everything that’s going on.” I roll the stone between my hands one last time before holding it out, palm outstretched. “Here.”

  He steps closer and covers my hand with his own. “You keep it,” he says.

  He steadies me, and all of a sudden, I want him, not just his touch, not just another kiss, but him. Searching for him in the cafeteria and secretly staring at him in class will no longer do. I want him next to me all day, every day.

  “Thanks.” I clutch the rock, now warm from my skin. I take another deep breath and look him in the eye. “Did you mean it?” I ask.

  “Yes, keep it. Really,” he says. He squeezes my hand, pressing the rock deeper into my palm.

  “No.” I shake my head. “Did you mean what you said? That you’ve liked me all this time?”

  “Yes. I meant it.” He squeezes my hand one more time before leaning in. His kiss feels like mouth-to-mouth resuscitation, and my breathing slows. So does my heartbeat. By the time he pulls away, I’m almost steady.

  It feels right to be with him. Especially now. I grip the rock. He’s given me more than the rock to hold on to.

  Nine

  Thanks to the Renaissance fair in Golden Gate Park, customers in medieval velvet gowns and black cloaks flood the bakery early Sunday morning. A long line snakes out the door and down the busy street. At one point, Bobby pops in to inspect the commotion, fearing a holdup or some other sensational explanation for the sudden craving for Russian baked goods. Only once before, thanks to a spontaneous engagement party, have we ever sold out the store. Mom woke me early, asked if I’d help out. Turns out I slept with the rock, clinging to it like a teddy bear.

  I’m tired from the party, but that doesn’t last long. I race from counter to kitchen as we pop tray after tray of cookies and pastries into the oven. Steam clouds the glass cases. We stay open for an extra three hours, and the time flies by. I counted up two weeks’ worth of profits after one busy day, the equivalent of finding a large bundle of bills on the sidewalk. Happy with such easy success, Nadine and Mom insist we celebrate.

  During the day, Mom said just a few sentences to me, mostly directions, with a final “Job well done.” Now, she laughs at Tatya Nadine’s jokes. At first, her laugh sounds unfamiliar, but after a while, I remember this is how she can be. She’s the same when the sun comes out after weeks of fog, so low and thick that it feels like you’re choking on clouds.

  The wine helps. Dad keeps the fridge stocked with beer, and we always have wine for Mom and something for Tatya Nadine, who picks a bottle of Prosecco and liberates the cork with a smile.

  We chop mounds of onions and cabbage. Russian pastries are complicated, but our savory food is comforting. Mom kneads dough for the vegetable pie as Tatya Nadine seasons the soup, tasting it after adding each herb.

  “Charlotte,” Mom says, her voice sounding lighter than it has since Dad left. Since he disappeared. “Why don’t you change? And please set the table.”

  My shirt looks like an edible Jackson Pollock painting. My room’s a mess, and I’ve hauled more boxes of photos from my closet. So much for my outstanding organizational skills. Snapshots of Dad are scattered on the floor. I reach down and tidy them into little piles, promising myself that I’ll clean up later.

  I’m out of clean clothes. Only skirts and dresses hang in my closet. Summer clothes. I choose the most casual but feel silly and overdressed. It’s fine, though—appropriate for a celebration.

  Tatya Nadine smiles when she sees me. “Vy posmotrite dovol’no.” You look pretty. She hands me a glass of Prosecco. I shake my head. “Mom will freak out.”

  “Are you saying you only drink on Christmas? You’ve never had a drink at a party?” She laughs as she dares me to answer.

  “Okay then, yes please.”

  When Mom reenters the kitchen, I almost drop the glass, worried her disapproval might ruin her mood. She’s changed too, into a rose-colored shirt and jeans. It’s as though she stepped out of my favorite photo in the hallway, the one framed in hand-carved wood and layered in gold leaf. In the picture, my parents stand in front of the War Memorial Opera House, my young father dashing in a tuxedo and my mother in a dress the exact same color as the shirt she’s wearing now. Her rose garden gown. Beaded flowers climb the length of the dress, circling the waist and blooming at the shoulders. Just as she had twenty years earlier, she’s twisted her hair into a bun, revealing her long neck.

  She looks younger, but more than that, she looks content. So much so that it takes me a moment to notice the left side of her face, the subtle droop, a permanent reminder of her stroke and my violent entrance into the world. While uneven, both of her eyes look almost cheery. Her forehead has lost its tight worry lines; her jaw is relaxed; and her mouth—finally—curves into a genuine smile.

  Tatya raises her glass. “Za vashe zdaroveeye ee blagapaloocheeye.” To health and happiness. Mom clinks hers against Nadine’s.

  Mom surveys the food steaming on the table. “This reminds me of being back home.”

  Tatya Nadine nods. “This is my babushka’s soup.”

  “I could never cook as well as my grandmother,” Mom says. “You know how many times I’ve tried. I’m glad Jeremiah had the chance to eat her food before she passed away. She liked him. He was the first boyfriend of mine she liked. Even though he’s American. I still can’t believe that.”

  Mom’s family wasn’t political, but a few worked in government, low-ranking officials. Her cousin in the agricul
ture department was the first one to reach any kind of stature. Mom describes him as a cunning politician.

  Mom turns to me. “My grandmother would have changed her opinion if she’d seen your father at the White Nights Festival.”

  When Mom talks about growing up in Russia, she doesn’t sound wistful. She lists the people and landmarks she misses most, but she talks about how life is so much easier here. She describes how she loves Russian summers but dreads how the snow and ice drain the world of all its color. Besides her family, what she misses the most are the White Nights, when, from May until July, twilight lasts until dawn. The White Nights embody an in-between time, with the sky barely light, yet streetlamps illuminate the riverfront. Given our current state of waiting, I have a new appreciation for the prolonged dusk. Think of a sunset that lasts for hours, how the brilliant colors slowly fade into a pink pastel light. I wonder how long the sun and moon occupy the same sky, and in that moment, I want nothing more than to take photos of Mom’s homeland, a family vacation, the three of us. Maybe Tatya could come too.

  As Mom passes the bread basket to Nadine, she talks about how Dad came back to St. Petersburg to do an anniversary piece a year after the Neva River flooded. Really an excuse to see Mom again. They’d kept in touch through airmail and late-night phone calls. He came for the White Nights Festival. I’ve read his article about the trip, how a rainbow of clouds streaked across the sky creating an exquisite backdrop for the czar’s Winter Palace.

  “He splurged for a boat ride. He couldn’t afford it, and the paper didn’t cover that kind of expense. Your dad can be extravagant, Charlotte. Back then, he’d spend all his money on his phone bill and beer and music. Without me, he probably still would.

  “We went up the river to see the islands. I wanted to show him the burial place of the czars and their families. Our driver met another motorboat, and he decided to race. He’d been drinking. We didn’t know it, though, and the other boat certainly didn’t know what was going on. What a surprise.”