Nadia sat cross-legged in front of her floor-length mirror, staring into her own eyes. A sketchbook lay open and forgotten in her lap. Only the closet she sat in was lit; the bedroom behind her was as black and void as the night outside. She sat unmoving, intent on her own reflection. Was she vain? Perhaps. Vain, or just searching. Trying to capture something.
She raised an eyebrow, lowered it again, then laughed scornfully and pushed the mirror away. Letting the book slide off her lap, she rose and walked into her dark room. She would have looked beautifully silhouetted, had there been anyone in the room to see.
Nadia plucked a scarf from her dresser and twirled it around her hands as she walked to her bed and threw herself on top of it. Her bedspread was perfectly smooth. Pale green light from the clock beside her punctured the dark: one fifty-two. Insomnia. Or something like it. Nadia hadn’t exactly made the effort to sleep; she still wore stiff jeans and heavy black boots. But she hadn’t seen the reason to sleep, recently. She dreaded the time inevitably spent awake in bed: the vulnerable moments between caressingly soft sheets when the world was silent except for the ticking of a clock she forgot during the day and she was left lying awake like a child, her pajamaed self so small in the empty blackness. Unconsciousness was all right, but sleep was not. Usually, she would stay up nights, out as late as possible, then alone in the enclosure of her bedroom, writing or sketching or lying on the floor or trying to curl her long dark hair until she simply collapsed and slipped into a dream. She would wake up with seams pressed into her sides, leaving deep red marks on her skin. Foggy mornings and puffy eyes, but much easier nights. She liked to think of death this way. No transitions. Just living, right up to the end, then... nothing,
When she neared sleep the thoughts would come, insidiously seeping into her mind. Memories she wanted to forget, words she couldn’t believe she said, disembodied faces which now elicited only fascinated revulsion. Nightmares weren’t supposed to be so seductive. There was a certain appeal to the horrible, the painful, the haunting. Masochism made sense. Nadia liked herself better when hurting; she did it well, and concealed it better. In daylight she was blandly cheerful in a way she couldn’t remember afterwards. Days ran together in her mind like October, chilling monotony, whole eras of her life combining in a cold breeze of time punctuated only by the candle-in-the-darkness existence she led in the confines of her bedroom.
Nadia was startled out of her daze by a phone ring: Mozart’s Symphony #40. She rolled off her bed and groped around on the floor for her phone. She found it quickly.
Hello?
Nadia?
Of course.
You at home?
I am.
Hold on. We’ll be right there.

She stared at the phone in her hand, a smile playing on the corners of her mouth. She tossed the small phone onto the bed. Then she slid into a long sweater, took her purse from the back of her chair, and went to the window.
A sleek silver car pulled up to her house. Nadia didn’t recognize the car but she knew who must be in it. And he was. A tall shape emerged from the back passenger door, opened the gate noiselessly, and came up the walk. His form moved easily, lit by the half moon.
Lucas.
She had opened the window, and though she spoke softly her voice strode through the night. He looked up at the sound of his name, unsurprised.
Nadia. Are you ready? She nodded. Come down.
They’ll hear. Their room is right by the stairs.
He smiled. Then what the hell is that for? He pointed to the rope tied firmly to the gutter, just outside her window, running along a corner in the wall.
Nadia laughed. Just testing you. Catch this. She tossed her purse down and climbed through the window, hooking her legs around the rope.
Lucas watched as she slid down easily. Do this often, Nadia?
She jumped to the ground and brushed her hands against each other. Often enough. Who’s out there?
Tristan. Lauren. Does it matter?
Not at all. She coiled the end of the rope and hung it on a tree branch. Let’s go. I’ll take that. She reached for her bag.
Lucas held it just out of her reach. This must weigh fifteen pounds. You moving out?
I don’t know. Are we?
She said it intentionally, a challenge in her eyes, but she looked away after a second, blushing slightly against her will. She hadn’t meant to be taken seriously.
He studied her, then hung the bag over her shoulder gently and opened the gate for her. Here you are, m’dear. She hesitated; he saw. Are you ready?
The night was much bigger once outside. The air was warm and soft, a breeze pushing her hair back slightly, smelling of the day’s warmth and tulips. Nadia looked up and saw the half moon, sharply edged, shining onto Lucas and onto the car. It looked like a beacon for something.
I’m ready.

The car. Sleek, streamlined in the night. The inside was warm, from an impressive heater and hours of use. Nadia climbed in and Lucas shut the door behind her. Two heads turned from the front seat.
Nadia? Tristan was illuminated only by the lights on his dashboard. This was clearly his domain. He spoke softly, but with an edge.
Yes, that’s me. You’re Tristan? Lucas climbed in the other back door.
Tristan smiled. Absolutely. And this is Lauren.
Lauren leaned over her seat. That’s me. Hi. It looks like I’ll be your navigator... any requests? We can take you anywhere. The word anywhere sent a chill through Nadia’s spine.
Do you know where you’re going?
I do.
Then I trust you. Take us wherever. But make it... make it all right. You know?
Lauren smiled. I do. And I can do that. She turned around and said a few words to Tristan, words which Nadia didn’t understand. He nodded and shifted gears.
The car hummed and slowly pulled away from the curb, smoothly, carefully. The four moved slowly down the street. Nadia shivered. It’s like taking off, she said softly.
Lucas looked at her. You’re right.

The car hurtled down the freeway. They were out of dollhouse suburbia and into the hills, wide, gently rolling expanses of black sitting calmly outside the windows. Everything was clearer. Inside, Nadia leaned against her own window, her shoes off, legs crossed. She breathed deeply, felt herself let go a bit. It was hard to think of anything out here, anything else when these fields filled her mind and her vision. The night was so expansive...
Lucas took her bag from the seat between them and started playing with the zipper. Now what would the great Nadia carry with her? Charcoal? Dark eyeliner? A doctoral thesis on the metaphysical problems of the world? Bottled angst? Nadia smiled, turning from the window.
Bottled angst? He was laughing. Go ahead, look.
He opened the bag and set it in his lap. Her wallet, of course. Duct tape. Very stylish. Did you make it? She nodded.
Years ago. It’s falling apart.
But easy enough to fix, right? Let’s see. Eight dollars. A driver’s license. Gorgeous picture, of course. How old are you there? Twelve?
Fifteen. They take the picture when you get your permit.
You’re hardly recognizable. Don’t worry, that’s a good thing. What else... a phone card, a New York boating license-- what the hell do you need that for? we’re three thousand miles from New York--, about fifty receipts, and... a thousand lire. Sweetie, these aren’t even legal currency anymore.
Nadia shrugged. I know. But they’ve been in there ever since I was in Italy. I don’t want to take them out. I don’t know why I would...
Lauren turned around. She and Tristan had been talking almost silently for nearly an hour. They formed an effective wall for Nadia and Lucas. You were in Italy? I spent all of last summer in Orvieto. I worked as a waitress while taking an art course at the university. Isn’t it spectacular?
Nadia nodded earnestly. I was in Orvieto, for half a day. It’s up on a hill, isn’t it? All I remember was getting lost in the tiny streets, and not minding, because it was so beautiful. Worn stone and tile roofs...
Lauren nodded slowly. That’s it exactly. She turned around, gazing out the windshield once more.
Unaffected, Lucas continued to empty Nadia’s bag. Car keys. A ballpoint pen. And another. A marker. A pencil. Write much, Nadia? Advil. A plastic spoon. He looked up at her, grinning.
You’re going to make me explain the spoon? I thought it might be useful... someday. Haven’t you ever needed a spoon? She could see him trying to hold back laughter, his lips tight. Go ahead, laugh... don’t come to me if you ever need a spoon...
He tossed it at her. There. What else. Oh, your baby... Lucas carefully lifted Nadia’s camera out of the bag. Don’t you get nervous, carrying this around?
No. Not at all. And if I did, it’d be worth it. She took it gently from his hands and ran her fingers over it. Do you think, if I used a flash...
No. Lucas’s voice was sharp. She looked up in surprise. Not tonight, Nadia. You don’t have to capture everything, you know.
Nadia saw the resolve in his eyes, saw how it changed his usually smiling face. It shook her. All right. I didn’t... all right. She set the camera in her lap. I won’t.
Lucas looked at her gently, then went back to her bag. No phone, I see. Good idea. Very good idea. Sunglasses. And at the bottom... what’s this? He took out a piece of paper, folded twice, very well creased.
Acid coursed through Nadia’s veins. Lucas, don’t. She grabbed it from his hands, not noting the look of surprise on his face, and clutched it in her right hand, away from him. She turned to the window, her heart pounding.
Nadia, I... I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to...
Tristan and Lauren sat unmoving in the front, looking ahead quietly. The car went over a bump in the road and all four shook.
Forget it, Lucas. Please, forget it.
She leaned her forehead against the cold glass. The white lines of the freeway flickered by her eyes, one after another, so quickly she couldn’t distinguish between them. They made her dizzy.

They were climbing now, climbing in the hills. On all sides were trees of staggering height, and as they went around curves in the highway and the car leaned into the center the trees seemed to be above them as well as around. Nadia stared out the window, not really seeing anything. The letter lay beside her, its presence strangely imposing. It wasn’t supposed to be there. Not tonight. Not tonight, which was blind flight and adventure and running to something else entirely, when the night was a drug and enough to encompass her completely if she so chose. It wasn’t fair.
You had to come along on this too, didn’t you. You ruined me completely, you took off for nowhere and when I try to do the same you won’t let me. I don’t want you here. I don’t want you as this leech, this presence I can’t get away from. As if you could come along for the ride.
But you could’ve, and that’s what’s so horrible. This could have been us. So easily. We’d be like those two in front, exactly like that, but with no passengers because they wouldn’t have understood. We could have fled for anywhere and it would have worked. You understood that as well as I did. You knew that we were on the edge of breaking through everything, the edge of achieving something so amazing and so perfect that nothing could be the same, ever. We were about to challenge everything either of us had ever believed, and we were about to win.
And so what if all of that went to hell. It’s not that I care, it’s just that...
Nadia brushed away one tear, only one, and pulled her sweater over her shoulders. She curled up into her seat and closed her eyes.

She was awakened by a sharp dip in the road. Lucas noticed immediately. Sleep well?
Yes, actually. I did. She stretched to the extent the car allowed. Lauren? Where are we?
Lauren turned around. Still on 580. Headed west, about twenty miles from the city. Tristan wanted to drive through tonight. There’s something amazing about the city at four in the morning. Is that all right? Nadia nodded, trying not to show the excitement she felt.
Perfect, she said, a little too quickly. Lauren spoke a few words to Tristan, who smiled.
Nadia leaned back in her seat. Lucas? Do you have any idea what we’re doing here?
He met her eyes. I thought you needed this. Really. You’ve been so... so closed lately. I wanted to get you to open up a bit.
Really?
Well... yes. And I wanted to be with you when you rediscovered the world. And I thought it would be awesome to... it just felt right, Nadia. Look at this. We’re miles from home, miles from anywhere, driving away from everything at seventy-five miles an hour. The night is ours, isn’t it? Isn’t this fantastic?
Is it... Lucas, I don’t know what I’m doing. I snuck out of my house and I’m being driven along by people I hardly know and I don’t even have enough money to get home if I needed to and it’s insane, I’m absolutely crazy-
Nadia. His voice was gentle. Does it matter?
She looked at Lucas, saw the earnestness in his eyes, the care in his speech. He meant it. Nadia felt suddenly warm, felt the darkness come into the car and expand, felt the clarity of everything out on the road. She sighed, deeply but not unhappily.
No. It doesn’t. A smile threatened to cross her face. It really doesn’t.

Tristan broke the contented silence. All right. We’re coming up to my favorite spot. If you’ll all do what I tell you, I promise it’ll be the greatest thing ever. Okay?
The music changed, his intricately played guitars becoming upbeat techno music. Lucas laughed with surprise. Tristan? Regressing a bit?
Shut up. This song’s amazing. Now close your eyes.... tightly.
Lauren did so, an expectant smile on her face. Nadia looked at Tristan skeptically. You want us to...
Please. It’ll be worth it.
Why did she trust him? She hardly knew him, hardly knew him at all, but there was something in his voice... Nadia closed her eyes, feeling slightly silly. The music continued, its constant beat more compelling than she cared to admit. She felt the car climbing, nearing the top of the hill.
Ready? Open your eyes... now.
Nadia opened her eyes just as the music exploded in a chorus of exhilarated noise. She gasped. They were flying. They had just rounded the hill- she could feel the lightness in her stomach- and the entire city lay before them in lights, perfectly clear against the black of the water and the sky. The bridge was there, traced in tiny dots of white. Everything was right there in front of her. And they were moving so quickly, absolutely flying down the hill and coming ever closer to the lights, to the city. Signs rushed by them, as did cars, moving as fast as the music which brought together everything. Nadia felt reality dissolve.
Lauren recovered first. Awesome.
Simple, but perfect. It was awesome.
Nadia couldn’t take her eyes off the road, the lights. She felt laughter rising inside her. Faster, Tristan, faster!
He laughed. You got it, babe. The car responded easily.
They went tearing down the hillside, unimpeded in the left lane, whizzing by everything in an instant. They had made it, Nadia felt sure. They had made it.

Exhausted by the city, by the endless buildings and stoplights and people, even in the still of the morning, Nadia lay back against the car door, using her sweater as a blanket. Was it starting to get light? No, but dawn would be approaching soon.
Lucas? He turned. What if we didn’t go home?
You’d have a hard time two weeks from now.
I know, but...
That’s not the point. Of course. He smiled. Well, if we want to run for it... I have forty-two dollars, a pocket full of change, and a granola bar.
Nadia smiled back. Eight dollars and a thousand lire.
I’ve got the most beautiful car in the world, half a tank of gas, and the next three weeks.
Map of the US Interstate System, a pack of gum, twenty-two dollars, and the next three weeks.
I brought a jacket. It’s in the trunk. If we’re headed into cold weather.
Eight CDs. All of them amazing. And one hell of a sound system.
Can we get to New York, Tristan? I know how, if we have enough gas money. I have a frequent buyer card at Minestrini’s. I’ll get us a free sandwich and a Coke.
Hey, if we get to New York I can legally take you out on a boat... I told you the boating license would come in handy. I also have a spoon.
There should be some emergency money in the glove compartment. Oh, I have a pack of matches.
I have a camera.
I have Nadia.
She turned to him, taken aback. He was smiling. Oh, really? And how far will that get you?
He shrugged. Far enough.

Tristan pulled off the highway, an offramp marked Vista Point. Spend the night here? The sunrise is amazing.
This isn’t legal, is it?
Well, not from sundown to sunrise. It won’t be dark much longer.
Nadia shrugged. All right. But don’t tell me that. I like the night.
He drove up the steep hill, and parked on the very top. They could see over the ridge they were on, to the city below, and to the water on the other side. Far to the east, the sky was lighter, with a tinge of green. Nadia shivered, and turned away from the window. Inside the car was still dark, blessedly and completely.
She leaned back, half across Lucas, who was slumped against the door. Lauren produced a blanket from the front and handed it back to them. Nadia pulled it over them both.
Hey. She spoke softly, though she knew Tristan and Lauren weren’t listening.
He smiled. Hello, Nadia.
She leaned her head back, so she could see through the window. Stars still dotted the sky. If I watched the stars for long enough, do you think they’d start moving?
She could feel him laugh. Absolutely.
Lucas...
Yes?
Thank you. For all this. For everything.
Don’t thank me, Nadia. Not now. It’s not over yet. Nothing’s over yet.
Yeah. Maybe you’re right.
There was a contented silence.
Nadia? I’m sorry about... earlier. The letter. I should’ve known better. I mean, not tonight.
She stirred, slightly. It’s all right. It’s just that... She sighed. I couldn’t decide if tonight was like that, or not. Like him, I mean. We could have done this. We could have escaped. But we never did. We were on the brink of something miraculous and it never happened. So was that a fall from grace, or was there a reason? I don’t know... A deep breath. It doesn’t matter, though.
You don’t have to lie, Nadia.
I know, I know I don’t. But I don’t think I am. Not this time.
A few minutes’ silence. The stars disappeared. Rain began to fall on the roof, to streak against the windows.
Lucas spoke softly. Nadia?
Silence.
He shook her slightly. Nadia?
Hmm?
Good night.
She yawned, and turned over.‘Night, Lucas.

all right. short story (pfft. short?) in two installments 'cause it didn't want to end. read and devour.

Cornflakes and Champagne

The day my father killed himself I had cornflakes for breakfast. It was March seventh, about six forty-five in the morning. The weather promised to be unseasonably warm, sunlight already filtering horizontally through the trees, brightening the wood of the breakfast table. My mother had left for work, taking my brothers to elementary school and day care on the way; my mornings were spent alone, just as I liked them. I ate slowly while gazing outside, golden light warming my face, my thoughts full of peaceful nothings. I was pouring another bowl of cereal, to use up the rest of the milk, when I heard the gunshot. It ripped through my body like it ripped through his skull. I dropped the box and cornflakes scattered over the table. No one cleaned them up for days.
I ran upstairs and found my father sitting upright in his desk chair, impeccably dressed in his usual jacket and tie. His hair was perfectly gelled and combed, except for one spot near his right temple, matted with blood. There must have been an exit wound but I didn’t want to look for it. His collar was still white and starched; it wouldn’t turn red for another few minutes. A handgun lay on the floor, about a foot from his right hand, which hung limply over the arm of the chair. Except for the gun, and the trickle of blood coming from his head, my father looked quite normal. Had I not heard the gunshot, I might not have known he was dead. I stared at him in shock and in morbid fascination. I was home alone with my father’s warm body. The next week I would turn fourteen.
The policemen and social workers agreed that the circumstances of his death were extremely unusual: a long-married, successful man attempting suicide, in the early morning, with his daughter home. They were wrong, of course. Everything about his death was perfectly in character; except that he left his body for us to find. I’d have thought he would have jumped off a bridge, or skied into a ravine. It was very unlike him to leave his body there with us, vulnerable, even in death. He would have hated any of us looking at him without his knowledge. But if someone had to find him, I knew that it had to be me. The shock would’ve destroyed my mother; she was much too weak to withstand something like that alone. It would have killed her, too, and he wouldn’t have wanted that. He was gruff, not murderous. My brothers were much too young. And everything in that house was always a power struggle between him and me. We sat at opposite ends of the dinner table, each nightly conversation a battle of wills, fighting for influence over my brothers, control over every issue. My mother occasionally came down sharply on issues related to her children, but it was clear from the time I entered third grade that there were only two forces of contention in the family.
My father was one of the most contradictory people I knew. To those he worked with, he was the ruthless CEO, clawing his way up the corporate ladder. He was ethical, always, but not kind. All through his career he was enormously competent; according to the papers, he knew what the hell he was doing. And he did. With his companies, like with his investments, like with his children, he tolerated no bullshit and no fluff. Everything he did, and everything his employees did, had to be researched and supported and credible. He was a bitter realist, and had very little time for visionaries or lofty thinkers. He wasn’t the get-rich-quick type. His money was solid. When the markets turned he rode out the recession amazingly well; I knew as well as he that this wasn’t luck. The bubble had burst, but Dad didn’t do bubbles. He worked with steel, with stone.
At home he was frequently moody and sharp. The standards of his workplace seemed to transfer to us; dinners had to be warm and punctual, we had to answer his questions clearly and honestly, be pleasant around him. He’d often get angry if we didn’t act the part of a “nice family.” After a few harsh words, we’d affect smiling facades, resume choreographed conversations and proceed with a forcibly pleasant meal, for his sake. Dad never did see the irony in this. My father was an authoritarian. My father was a patriarch. My father was the alpha male. And my father did all of these things extremely well. If nothing else, he could succeed, and make damn sure his family did too. He loved us. I guess that’s how he showed it.
But my father was once a free spirit. He was thrown out of a hotel in college for setting off the sprinkler system with incense smoke. He spent his weekends hanging around private airports, trying to hitchhike by air down to Florida. On the door to his office still hangs an authentic Presidential seal; he stole it from the Kennedy Center while staffing a reception there. He’d had a bit too much champagne from the senators’ unfinished bottles and decided that he needed the seal more than Nixon did. These stories I learned from his brothers, from his old roommates, on conditions of confidentiality which never lasted.
But my father’s wild days were not totally lost. In the summers of my own childhood, he spent half his days on a surfboard. He was a much better surfer than I was, better than any of my friends, though he tried to teach me. The beach regulars adored him. Out in the waves, with a wetsuit stretching over his deeply tanned skin, my father was just one of the guys-- even if the guys were thirty years younger than he. Dad was never happier than when running out of the ocean, water cascading off of him, having just caught a few amazing waves. In times like that I could see the man my mother married.
Sitting on the beach during these summers, I watched my father with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. Sometimes he was so terrible that I had to close my eyes and wall myself off from the things he said, the people he hurt. But in the summers he was tan and athletic and human, laughing with my brothers while throwing them around in the waves, paddling into the surf as his friends lay in beach chairs. I was proud of him. Proud that my dad was the cool one, proud that he was still energetic and free and young. And even proud of the things he had achieved, the places he had gotten. Watching the sun glint over the huge waves, and watching the tiny figure of my father amongst them, I knew that I had inherited his drive, his might. I could feel it when I argued my way through something important, or had a heated conversation with him. And that scared me. I wanted my father’s force of personality, but not his tyrannical nature. I wanted to be forty-five and surfing. I wanted to stay young.

That morning I called 911, not my mother. I could deal with professionals but I would rather have died myself then tell my mother what had happened. I didn’t want to hear her voice when she found out, I didn’t want to explain anything to her, and most of all, I didn’t want to be comforted by her. Her first concern would have been me: how I found out, if I was okay. And I didn’t want that. She didn’t need to worry about me, for one thing. She had enough to recover from herself.
When I was in second grade I got a black eye trying to run down a slide standing up. It had rained the day before, and my shoes met the wet metal too quickly. I slipped, half-falling, half-sliding, and hit my face against the edge of the slide. My mother saw the whole thing. She ran over to me, but I wouldn’t let her pick me up or look at my eye. She asked if I was all right and I said “Yes, Mother,” as irritably as my young quavering voice could manage. I stood up shakily, ignoring the throbbing pain around my eye, and ran over to the swings. That night I stole a bag of strawberries from the freezer and put them on my swollen eye. I cried myself to sleep, the side of my face numb. When I woke up in the morning my pillow was sticky with strawberry juice.
I never wanted my mother to be concerned about me. Something in pain seemed too personal for her to witness. Her intentions were always good, and I know her desire to help me was genuine. We didn’t have a horrible relationship, the two of us. She probably could have understood anything, and would have been sympathetic, if I had let her be. But I couldn’t. Talking to my mother was like sinking into a feather bed; too soft, too accommodating, and fundamentally ineffective.
After the ambulance arrived there were several minutes of frenzied action: taking my father’s vital signs; a quick investigation of the house, looking for an intruder or signs of a struggle; a storm of questions directed at me, which I answered without thinking. The ambulance workers took my father’s body away almost immediately: whether for an autopsy or an attempt to revive him, I didn’t know. It didn’t matter. I knew he was gone.
Within ten minutes I was left with two policemen and no father. One of them had the presence of mind to call my mother, as the other tried to talk to me, get me water, pat my shoulder. He was kindly looking but clearly not trained for situations like this. I didn’t want to talk to the police. I had told them all I had seen and all they needed to know. After assuring my comforter I wouldn’t leave the house, I walked into my room and closed the door carefully. I stared at myself in the mirror on my wall, stared into my eyes, ordering myself not to cry. My breathing became slow and regular. My eyes, like my mind, glazed over, and I felt nothing but empty.
When my mother ran in the door I was lying on my bed, staring at the ceiling, listening to Simon and Garfunkel’s Scarborough Fair over and over. The undulations of the music, the gentle guitar pluckings and shadowy voices, the melody circling around and around my head as I couldn’t tell the repetitions from each other, as if I cared to; the song was like my thoughts, subdued and indistinguishable and unending. I did win one small victory in those moments. I didn’t cry.
Simon and Garfunkel weren’t loud enough to drown out my mother. She burst into the house, demanding to see her husband, asking about me, clearly in an uncontrolled frenzy. When she threw open the door to my room I sat up slowly to face her.
“Natalie! Natty, Natty, my darling, you’re all right, what happened, what happened?”
I stared at her forehead, unable or unwilling to see her pained and panicked eyes. My voice was calm and dry. “He shot himself, Mom. You know that. They took him away, to the hospital or somewhere. I don’t know, really. They do.” I gestured to the policemen, standing at a discreet distance from my door.
“Are you all right? You can’t be all right! Did you see it? Did you hear it? My God, Natty, did you find him? You must have. How could he do this? What did you see, Natty? What did you see?” Her eyes darted everywhere. I knew she didn’t hear the words coming out of her mouth.
“Mom, I’m fine. Yes, I found him. No, I didn’t see him with the gun. Maybe you should go to the hospital. Let one of the police drive you. You can’t drive yourself.” She couldn’t. Her whole posture, her whole manner was affected. I hardly recognized her.
“Yes, yes, I think I will. Are you sure you’re all right? You’re all right.” She whipped around wildly. “Will you drive me, sir? Yes, yes, thank you, I don’t know where I’m going, I know that you do, thank you... And you? Will you stay with Natty?” She clawed at the front of the policewoman’s blue suit. “Take care of my Natty, please, please watch her, don’t let her...” My mother was led down the stairs and out the door. I heard car doors slam as they drove away.
The policewoman showed considerably more tact. She looked at me steadily. “Can I get anything for you, Natalie?” I shook my head. “Do you want to talk about anything?”
“No, thank you. I’ll be all right here.”
She nodded. “I’ll call the hospital in a few minutes, and your brothers’ teachers. Do you know where I’d find those numbers?”
“The school numbers are on the sheet by the kitchen phone.”
“Thank you, Natalie. I’ll be downstairs.”
I nodded to myself and lay back down on my bed, slightly dizzy. As soon as the door shut I heard Simon and Garfunkel, steady as ever. They sang on for hours.

One night, when I was about thirteen, my family was eating dinner at a Mexican restaurant. My father, as always, asked about school, so I told him about an English assignment I had. We were told to write a three page meditation on “the deepest longing of human existence.” I was quite excited. I had spent the last week filling notebook pages with freewrites about the search for truth, the need for love, the need for an affirmation of life: overly sentimental, but thoroughly pondered material. We had read parts of Plato’s Symposium in class and I just loved the idea of each human as half of a larger being, pain and emptiness given a reason. I didn’t believe anything Plato had said, but I really wanted to.
My middle brother, James, listened to me relate this information excitedly as he licked salsa off his fingers. “What do you mean, the deepest longing of human existence?” he asked.
“It means, what do people want more than anything?” I answered, taking a bite of enchilada.
James looked at me strangely. “That’s a really stupid question,”he said.
“Why?”
“Isn’t it obvious? People want to have fun. The meaning of life is to have fun. What else is there?
I sighed with the wisdom of my thirteen years. “Well, truth, and love, and justice, and morality, and things more important than just fun...” James looked at me inquisitively, chewing. I smiled. “Never mind. I’ll ask you again in five years, okay?” He nodded amiably and went back to his taco.
I looked to his right. “Dad? What do you think?”
My father looked over my mother’s right shoulder, his eyes not focusing and strangely cold. The rest of my family, intent on eating tacos without making a mess, didn’t notice.
“Dad?”
He looked at me, looked right into my eyes. “The deepest longing of human existence,” he said slowly, “is self-discovery. Living according to the self. That’s what I thought. But that’s idealistic bullshit, do you hear me? Circumstance interferes. And so money becomes the focus. Survival necessitates money. The kind of life you lead necessitates money. And the good of one’s family depends on money. There are things more important and more immediate than your metaphysical desires, Natalie. Do you understand?”
I swallowed hard, and nodded. My father pushed away his plate.
“Check, please.”

My mother was out of town for my eleventh birthday. Her grandmother was turning one hundred the same week, and her entire extended family was having a reunion in Illinois, so she went to that and took my little brothers with her. She fell all over herself apologizing. I was sad that she wouldn’t be there, but wished she wouldn’t make such a big deal out of it, as if I didn’t understand her reasons for leaving. We agreed to have a family celebration the night they got home. I spent my birthday with my best friend Annie, at the movies and baking cookies and listening to the CDs she gave me for a present. When my father came to pick me up from Annie’s home, I went to the door reluctantly, not wanting to leave the happy chaos for a big, almost empty house.
But my father was at the doorstep, wearing a jacket and tie, with a huge smile on his face and a beautiful plastic tiara, which he placed on my head. He kissed me on the cheek. “Happy birthday, sweetie. Ready for your big night?” I nodded, taken aback.
Dad took me out to his beautiful Mercedes convertible, which I almost never got to ride in, and opened the passenger door for me. He turned the radio to my favorite station and took off down the street. The wind blew through my hair and I clutched the tiara to my head, laughing.
As the sun set, we drove all the way up to the city, thirty miles through warm spring air and open roads. Riding shotgun of my dad’s special car, I felt older and beautiful, city sophisticate, ready for a night on the town. I noticed every time another driver looked over at my dad, and I waved casually, tossing my hair back and flashing a generous smile. I had the car, I had the tiara, I had the wind in my hair and my smiling father, suave in his sunglasses, as my escort. I didn’t want us to get there. I didn’t want the moment to end.
My father smoothly navigated city traffic, driving through the city and all the way to the water. He left the car with a valet driver, who opened the door for me. Dad led me over to the pier, out onto the water. A red carpet led up a gangway to a huge white steamship, softly lit from the inside.
“Here?”
Dad smiled. “Dinner on the boat. It used to sail the Mississippi, but now it’s a restaurant. How does it look?”
“Oh Dad, it’s beautiful...”
We ate an incredible meal by a window, watching the boats in the marina and the moon reflecting off the water. Dad let me get two strawberry daiquiris and anything I wanted for dessert. The meal took three hours but I loved every minute of it.
After dinner we went to the square in the middle of the city, a park still alive late at night, with street performers and pretzel vendors and laughing people everywhere. We sat on a stone bench and listened to a man with an acoustic guitar playing music we both knew: Bob Dylan, Paul Simon, Eric Clapton. He sang with a smooth voice that I still remember. When I started to shiver my dad put his jacket around my shoulders.
“Are you ready to go, Natty?”
“No! He’s not done yet!”
The man played for hours, and we listened to all of it. My eyes occasionally wandered from his fingers on the guitar and I saw buildings towering overhead, the lights of city living, the life of millions of people caught up in this one little town square. I knew then that I had to live in a city before I died.
At midnight, my father looked over at me again. “Natty, sweetie? Are you tired?”
“Nnnno.” I slumped against his side, my eyes no longer quite focusing.
He picked me up, all eighty-nine pounds of me, and carried me to the car. He put the top back up before we left the city.
I woke up about five miles from home. My father was listening to Led Zeppelin quietly, a contented smile on his face. “Dad?”
“Yes, Natty?”
“I don’t want to go home.”
He smiled back at me. “I don’t either. This has been fun, hasn’t it?”
“Yes. Oh Dad, it’s been perfect. Does it have to be over?”
He considered. “Will you stay awake if it’s not?”
“Yes!”
He switched to the left lane. “All right.”
Dad and I drove down the freeway for another fifty miles. We talked about my life, about school, about our family. And after a while we just sat in happy silence, the car humming gently beneath us. By the time we turned around and neared home, the sky was beginning to lighten in the east.
“Dad, do you ever just not want the sun to rise at all?”
He smiled sadly at me. “Every day.” He paused. “But especially today.”

At my father’s funeral I had very little to say. I’d been to funerals before-- my grandfather died when I was twelve-- but this one was unlike anything I’d ever seen. No one could say how tragic his death was without implicitly insulting him; they couldn’t say what a good life he had led because he chose to end it. I was offered many condolences and many hugs, but I didn’t want to receive them. My father was dead and part of me had gone with him. No one understood his suicide. They thought he had everything to live for. This was clear in every face around the tables of fruit, cheese and roses. And so I didn’t want to hear what they had to say about him. I knew people had questions for me; I’d heard my mother’s friends whispering “She found the body, you know. That one. Natalie.” I felt many pairs of eyes follow my black-clad self around the room. I met none of them. I walked upright, my chin high, my face blank. I felt beautiful, my face half-shrouded in my loose dark hair, my expression blank and enduring. Part of me wanted to be hideous, bleeding, oozing, falling apart at every joint and every orifice. But not in front of these people. At the funeral, I was the visual head of the family. I was the symbol of resilience. And I wanted to keep that.
I remember the day before my father died very clearly. It was pouring rain, after days of brilliant sunshine, and I was unimaginably happy. I got home from school and threw my backpack on my bed and ran to my window, plastering my nose against the cold glass. Something about a real rainstorm turns the normal plodding world into one of excitement, turns everything amazing and wild. The sky is demanding, suddenly a force to reckon with. And the heavens are alive.
I wanted to be a part of it. I opened my window latch, swung both sides out wide, and pushed myself up to the windowsill, bracing myself against the outside window frame and swinging one leg over. I eased myself onto the gentle sloping roof outside my room, closing the windows behind me.
The rain fell onto my bare arms and my face, and splattered deeper color onto my blue jeans. Each drop was delightfully cold, clearing the humid air and making way for something else entirely, something new and exciting. From the roof I could see the street and all the trees along it, thrashing in the wind. I reached down to pick a leaf off the roof, and just as I looked up, I saw a flash of lightning streak across the sky, exploding over my head. It was spectacular.
I threw my head back and laughed, catching raindrops in my mouth, laughing at nothing and everything, the cold and the rain. My face to the sky, I lay down on the roof, watching each raindrop come down to meet me, warm tears streaming down my face. I didn’t move for a long, long time.
One month after my father’s death I still hadn’t cried. Life had returned to a shaky normal. My younger brothers, now over their disbelief and confusion, were their old selves, if especially irritable and prone to fistfights. My mother was given to leaving the room in tears, sometimes several times a day, while trying to put dinner on the table or putting the boys to bed at night. I was just silent. I rarely spoke to anyone, my family especially. I had nothing to say to them.
Dinners were horrible. My mother tried to make cheery attempts at conversation; my brothers ate their food sulkily and answered rudely; I was a blank wall. I ate small amounts and washed my dish silently, retreating upstairs to do homework mechanically and think about nothing. In my nicer moments I felt horrible for my mother, who was only trying to hold her family together, but I knew it wouldn’t work. I hated my father. He had left me there at the end of the table; he had jumped off the other end of the seesaw and sent me flinging into the air. I couldn’t function without a foil. And I didn’t want to. I hated him for leaving our family so broken and so horrible.
Four months after his death I still hadn’t cried. My mother decided that I needed a father figure in my life, and so she sent me to dinner with a business friend of my father’s. His name was Peter and I had met him many times before, at company picnics and at parties with my family. Though I protested, I didn’t really mind. Peter was intelligent company who knew my father reasonably well and knew me well enough not to discuss him. He took me up to a swanky restaurant in the city. I wore an evening gown of my mother’s and dark eyeliner for the first time. I looked beautiful. Grief and anger had ravaged me completely but left my exterior slender, graceful, and much older looking. Glancing in the mirror on the way out the door, I realized that I approved.
I decided to spent the night composed and adult, impressing Peter with my speech and my manner. I didn’t want to be the kid given food instead of her father. I wanted to be the heir to the household. And I was. Peter picked me up in a low-slung sports car and told me that I looked stunning. I smiled demurely.
We drove up to the city, discussing traffic, cars, and the new housing development by the freeway. He took me to a beautiful Italian restaurant where the waiters wore bow ties and spoke Italian to the chefs in the kitchen. Peter ordered a bottle of red wine and offered me a glass. I accepted, knowing the wine from my father. It was one of the best the vineyard had ever produced. I sipped from my glass carefully, not getting any lipstick on the rim. Peter watched me with a half-smile on his face.
We had a wonderful three-course meal, and I told him about the time I had been to Italy with my family, several years before. My father had taken us to a little trattoria in Rome, a place he knew from the two months he spent in Italy the summer after he graduated from college. My youngest brother Joey, only four at the time, somehow wandered away unnoticed in the crowded room, and disappeared amidst the tables. Mom had noticed and freaked out, yelling at James and me to find him. My father went up to the manager and spoke to him in rapid Italian, words I didn’t understand. Then our waiter had walked into the dining room, with Joey behind him. Joey was clutching a wide slice of very thin pizza in his two hands. His face was red with tomato, and he grinned with delight. The waiter laughed. “He could not wait for his pizza, no? A real Italian!” Everyone in the tiny restaurant heard this and looked at my little brother, intent on his pizza. The room erupted in laughter. My father scooped Joey up and wrapped his arms around him. “That’s my boy.”
This was one of my father’s favorite stories, and Peter laughed, saying he could picture my brother going off in search of food. “That sounds like the Joey I know.”
I nodded, dabbing my mouth with my napkin and folding it, placing it neatly on the table. “Yes, but he’s different now. He’s not that little boy anymore. He’s angrier.”
“Since your father...”
“Yes. Since that. I think everyone has changed, really.”
Peter looked at me intently. “Let’s go outside. You need some air.”
We walked out into the warm summer breeze. We were right in the middle of the city, and lights surrounded us. I breathed deeply. “I love the city. So much. And I love the lights more than anything. We used to live in the hills, and I could see the whole city spread below me at night. I’m glad we moved, but I miss that more than anything.”
Peter smiled. “You like the lights, eh? Let me show you something.”
We got into his car and drove across town, to a high-rise apartment building. A uniformed doorman opened the door for us, and we stepped into a red-carpeted elevator. Peter pushed the button for the top floor.
The penthouse was spectacular, huge open rooms with glass outside walls, a near-panoramic view of the city and the ocean beyond. I gasped with delight. “Is this yours?”
He nodded, smiling. “I decided to spring for it when Karen and I got divorced. A little consolation prize, I guess. There’s no view like it in the whole city. At least, that’s what they tell me. Isn’t it beautiful?”
I gazed out the windows, enraptured. “Perfect.”
“Do you want a drink?”
I couldn’t take my eyes away. “Sure. Whatever you’re having.”
After a minute I turned around again and looked back at Peter. He handed me a tall glass of champagne. “Have a seat.”
I sat next to him on a black leather couch near the window. “Do you spend much time up here?”
“No, not as much as I’d like. Sometimes when I’m stuck at work, and don’t want to drive the hour home, I’ll stay here. Or when I’m just in the mood for the city. I had your father up for dinner here, once. It’s even better at sunset.” He saw the slight change in my face. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to... am I allowed to talk about him?”
I let out a deep sigh. “Sure. No one else will, you know. It’s like he never existed at all. My mother won’t mention him, because if she did she’d start crying. My brothers... I don’t know what they’re thinking. Sometimes I wonder if Joey’s forgotten him entirely.” I took a large sip of champagne, and coughed. “My family’s gone to hell. Gone to hell. And it’s entirely his fault. I wish they’d just say that, just admit that he fucked everything up. But they won’t say anything about him, least of all anything bad. Because he’s dead. And God forbid he could have done anything wrong, right? He’s dead. And you can’t speak ill of the dead. But I do. And I don’t know if I should or if I’m horrible, but he was wrong! He left us here alone. Alone. And I hate him for it. I do. I hate him.” I looked down, flustered and slightly embarrassed. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to dump this on you. God knows it’s not your fault.”
He was watching me closely. “No, Natalie, it’s fine. And you know what? I hate him too, sometimes.” I looked up at him, disbelieving. “Oh, come on. He was the CEO. How do you think we’ve managed without him? It’s been hell. Besides that, he was one of my best friends. Believe me, I’ve cursed him for leaving all of us here. It’s not as bad for me, of course, but I know exactly how you feel.”
I sunk down into the couch. “You do. You do know.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “I do.”
I fell into his arm, from relief and from champagne, more likely. “I don’t want to go back there. I never want to go back. I wish I could just be like you, have another place entirely. I want this life.”
Peter was still. “Do you mean that? You can stay the night here, if you want. I have an extra room.”
“Could I?”
He got up and crossed the room, picking up a phone from the table. “What’s your number?” I told him. He dialed it and waited a moment. “Pamela? Peter here. Yes, everything’s fine. Ah, this is a bit embarrassing. I’m still here with your Natalie, of course, and I’m afraid I’ve had one too many glasses of wine with dinner. I just don’t think I should make the drive ton- No, don’t be silly. You have the two boys, and I’m sure they’re asleep by now. But you know my apartment in the city? I have two bedrooms there, and I know Natalie would love the view. We’ll take a cab. I can run her down first thing tomorrow morning.” Pause. “No, no trouble at all. Thank you for being so understanding. I feel very badly about this. I’m usually much more-” Pause. “All right. Well, thank you.” Pause. “She says good night, too.” He hung up the phone with a soft click and walked back over to the couch. I was staring out the window, in something of a daze.
Peter walked back over to the couch and sat very close to me. I leaned against him again. “Thank you,” I said softly.
“Any time.”
He cupped my chin in his rough right hand and looked into my eyes. “You’re beautiful. Do you know that?”
I couldn’t look away. I couldn’t find the strength, or the reason, really. “Really?”
He nodded, more to himself than to me. Then he leaned over and kissed me. His lips were soft, his touch gentle. He pulled away first. I blinked twice. He looked at me. “Is this okay?”
I nodded, almost imperceptibly, and leaned into him again. This time my lips found his.


I awoke early the next morning to sunlight streaming through the picture windows and a horrible ache in my head. Peter lay breathing steadily next to me. I took the comforter off the foot of the bed and wrapped it around my body, shivering violently. I dragged myself and the huge blanket out of the bedroom and into the living room, where I saw an inch of champagne shining in my unfinished glass. I shuffled over to the window, sliding down the glass to the floor, and stared out at the open ocean. My cheek rested against the cool glass. I began to cry silently.
By the time Peter woke up I had gotten dressed and cleaned up somewhat, washing the shadow of eyeliner from under my eyes. I felt silly and young in the evening gown, but I had nothing else to wear. I sat on the couch, the blanket folded next to me, watching the brilliant morning light streak across the room. Peter smiled at me as he came out of the bedroom. “Good morning. Isn’t it even better by day?”
I smiled back at him.

When I was nine years old my father insisted on showing me his favorite movie of all time, Harold and Maude. He hadn’t seen it in about ten years, and had a tendency to grossly overestimate my maturity level. “It’s rated PG, so it’s fine, right? Right. Now, Natty, this is a great movie. There’s this guy who fakes his own death all the time, but he’s just joking, always. It’s really funny. I think you’ll love it.” He put on the movie and left me there to watch.
It was horrible. All I remembered from it were dark rooms, long silences, and graveyards. I didn’t like the music, but it was only there when the scenes were bright and I didn’t need to hear it. The silences were the worst part. I didn’t understand any of the movie, but it left me with a feeling of depth and emptiness. I trudged up to my room after it ended feeling like the only person alive.
I watched the movie again, soon before my fifteenth birthday. I found a VHS copy in my father’s closet when I was looking through his things for the first time, and I decided to give it another try. I secretly hoped that my father would be in Harold, somewhere, that I could find him in the movie.
I didn’t. But it was amazing. Maude made me laugh silently, Harold made me shudder but drew me in, and I was left with a feeling of utter exhaustion, but elation too. It left me thinking about nothing and everything. I wanted to dance on the edge of a cliff. I wanted to throw off circumstance in all of its forms. And I wanted to sing out.
After it was all over, I picked up the movie jacket and studied it. This was my father’s favorite movie. My father, whom I still thought of as suited and tied and rigidly conservative. What did he see in it? Could it possibly be the same thing I did?
I shook my head silently. Maybe I didn’t have to understand all of him.

One year minus one day after my father’s death, I sat on my roof again. The sky was gray and heavy, but held back its rain. A cold breeze swirled around my shoulders, and Cat Stevens’ Trouble played inside my room. I stared out into the street. Life had been getting steadily better for the past few months. I had learned to smile around my mother, and we talked occasionally, though never about him. Most days were something like normal. But March brought it all back.
I heard the front door slam beneath me, and Joey ran outside, into my sight. He was throwing a basketball in front of him, and had to run even faster to catch it, just barely keeping pace. I watched him, wanting to smile. He got to the gate and turned around.
“Natty! What are you doing up there?”
I shrugged. “Sitting. Watching the sky. Watching you, silly.”
He surveyed me seriously. “Okay. Wait one second.” He dropped the ball and ran inside the house. A moment later he was at my window. “Can I come up?”
I nodded, and offered him a hand. He heaved himself over the windowsill on his stomach, and I moved over to let him sit down.
“It’s really cool up here. Does Mom let you do this?”
I smiled. “I don’t know. I haven’t asked her. You probably don’t want to.”
“Okay.” He traced the shingles of the roof with his finger.
“Joey? Are you ever mad at Dad?”
“Mad at him? Why?”
“For leaving us. For wanting to leave us. For going away forever.”
Joey looked out at the trees. “I don’t know. Sometimes, I guess. It’s a lot different without him, you know?” I nodded. “But that’s okay. He left us because he was sad. I don’t think it was his fault. If he got to choose he would be here and happy. I think Dad was sick, a little. But I still love him.”
“Do you?”
“Yeah. I really do. I remember all the times he was nice to us. And how he looked on Christmas morning, you know? When he was so happy? And how he took me surfing even though I could never stand up on the board. And how he lay down in my bed at night to talk to me so’s I wouldn’t have bad dreams.” He crossed his arms. “Besides, can’t you be mad at someone and love them too?”
I was silent for a long time.
“Natty? Can’t you be mad at someone and still love them?”
“Yeah, Joey. I guess you can.”
“Do you still love Dad?”
“You know what, Joey? I think I do.”
“Oh good. Me too. Natty, it’s starting to rain.” He was right. Fat drops fell from the sky onto our arms, onto the roof. “Natty.” He tugged at my arm. “Natty, let’s go in.”
“Go ahead, Joey. I’ll be right in, okay?”
“You’re crazy. You’re going to get wet.”
“Yeah, I know. I guess I am crazy, a little.” I smiled at him. “Go on in.”
Joey crawled through the window and closed it behind him. I leaned back against the wall, hugging my bare arms to my chest. The rain was cool and cut through the humid air cleanly. I leaned back, the water running over my face. And I smiled. I smiled to myself, watching the rain streak across the gray sky. It was beautiful, really.