Chapter 10 The Visiting Nephew
10
The Visiting Nephew
I wake up Monday morning to a text message.
6:13 AM
Adam:
Your cult of Christmas is far-reaching.
Adam’s message sits without context until a picture of a warehouse appears. The wood name placard is cut off, but to the left of superior const is a giant green wreath with a lopsided red bow.
I hold my boobs in my hands as I consider my reply. It’s not sexual—just a thing I do now—like how your tongue absently finds the spot where the Novocain hasn’t worn off after getting a filling.
6:16 AM
Alison:
We prefer the Children of the Claus.
6:20 AM
Adam:
Ha.
—
7:04 AM
Alison:
How do you respond to a text that’s one syllable?
7:07 AM
Mara:
What’s the syllable?
7:07 AM
Alison:
Ha.
7:09 AM
Chelsea:
Soooo things are definitely heating up with Hot Adam then?
7:10 AM
Alison:
Anybody could have sent me a Ha!
7:12 AM
Chelsea:
But you’re not crowdsourcing your flirty response to a Ha from just anybody.
7:14 AM
Mara:
She’s right. You’re fully obsessed.
7:15 AM
Chelsea:
It’s cute!! He’s SO your Harrison Ford but from Morning Glory . He’s all crabby and difficult.
7:17 AM
Mara:
Chels, he’s fully an old man in that movie.
7:19 AM
Chelsea:
Ford at any age CAN GET IT and so can Adam
7:21 AM
Alison:
Am I the “it” in that scenario?
7:24 AM
Mara:
Does this guy have plans for New Year’s Day? Is he into sports???
7:25 AM
Chelsea:
Al prefers we call him Hot Adam. Give him the respect he deserves!!
—
Two days go by without any new texts to or from Adam, and now that it’s Wednesday, I wonder if I killed the conversation. Is it my job to resuscitate it with the next text?
I’m feeling socially out of my depth when Daniella asks me to join a presentation in Duluth. Our company works up there enough that this isn’t an unprecedented occurrence, but the timing couldn’t be more perfect. What better way to resurrect a text conversation than to casually ask for a restaurant recommendation?
10:13 AM
Alison:
Where does one eat lunch in Duluth?
I wince at my phrasing, but my stupid thumb already pressed send. I watch my phone for dancing dots until I feel sufficiently pathetic. I groan at myself and place my phone face down on my desk. I have enough time to read and respond to one email on traffic patterns near a proposed railway extension before my phone shakes.
10:56 AM
Adam:
Who is one?
10:57 AM
Adam:
Is one me?
11:01 AM
Alison:
One is me, obviously. Boss added me to a presentation in Duluth. 10 AM tomorrow. I usually stop at Culver’s on the way out of town, but now that I have an inside source, I want to know where to go!
11:02 AM
Alison:
Unless Culver’s is the best your city has to offer…
When he doesn’t instantly respond, I start to type, then delete. I type again. Delete.
The vibration from my phone physically startles me, and I see Josh register it with a smirk out of the corner of my eye.
11:25 AM
Adam:
Thoughts on sandwiches?
11:26 AM
Alison:
Positive.
11:29 AM
Adam:
I can meet you at Corktown Deli at noon
“Ahh!” I drop my phone like it’s on fire.
“What’s wrong?” Patty asks. Simultaneously, Josh guesses, “More spiders?”
“No. Sorry. I’m fine. It’s one of those banner ads with weird toes.”
Patty flashes a sympathetic smile. “I’m sorry, hon. I hate those too.”
I lower my eyes to my screen, plunging back into my conversation with Adam.
11:36 AM
Alison:
You don’t need to eat with me if you’re busy.
11:38 AM
Adam:
Well, now I want a Reuben, so…
11:39 AM
Adam:
I can eat when you’re at your meeting, so we don’t run into each other.
11:41 AM
Alison:
I’m not letting you eat a sad sandwich alone.
11:42 AM
Adam:
Reubens are happy sandwiches.
11:43 AM
Alison:
What’s the saddest sandwich then?
11:45 AM
Adam:
Tuna salad. No question.
11:46 AM
Alison:
This checks out.
11:47 AM
Alison:
I’d been planning to use “meeting someone for lunch” as an excuse if the meeting drags on, so this’ll actually be perfect. You’ll make the story more credible.
11:48 AM
Adam:
Good.
—
The next day, I order a Cozy Pig sandwich from the deli counter while I wait for Adam. Every time the door opens, my eyes dart to it.
Adam eventually walks in and juts his chin in my direction. Relief rushes through me. He points to the front counter, and I mouth, You go order, while waving my arms in a series of chaotic gestures. We both find our way back to the table with our sandwiches, and though mine looks good, his pastrami Reuben looks better. I wish I knew Adam well enough to ask if we could split the two halves, but I don’t. I eat my sandwich and pretend I’m not jealous of his.
I feel him examine my work attire—an inexpensive oversized black blazer from H&M over a T-shirt—while we make idle chitchat about the weather and highway construction, finding our conversational groove in this new environment. He’s changed into clean clothes, but, having come straight from a construction site, his hair still has a bit of dust in it.
“What brought you up here for the day?” he asks around his last bite.
I point at my full mouth and chew a bit more before answering. “I’m a transit consultant. Bus systems, light rail, the occasional heavy rail. I was updating my recommendations to a team working on the high-speed rail from Duluth to the Cities.”
“That’d be convenient. When’s it happening?” He takes a sip of his soda, his eyes trained on me.
“Soon, but maybe never. I’ve been working on it in some capacity since I was an intern. Whenever they want to propose a new budget plan, they bring me back in, but then something happens to the funding. We’re always very close to ‘getting close.’ He’s my white whale.”
“Are trains a he?” His eyes light up with amusement.
“I’ve always assumed as much. Thomas is, at least.”
He tilts his head, considering. “You’re right. Percy, James—are all the trains male? How does that work?”
“I wouldn’t think too deeply about the anthropomorphism in the land of Sodor. It gets very dark very quickly.”
“I can see that.” Adam wakes up his phone to check the time. “Do you have to get back?”
“Nah, I took the afternoon off.”
“I could show you around a bit?”
I sip my soda. “I should probably go for a hike. My boots are in my car. I always intend to but can never seem to get myself to do it.”
“Such enthusiasm,” he says wryly, brushing the crumbs off his hands and onto the parchment paper.
“I’m trying to embrace the outdoors and adventure in general, but it’s a bit of a work in progress. Most of the work seems to be forcing myself to enjoy it, and then I feel guilty for not enjoying it, which only makes it feel more forced.” I rummage up something that resembles a smile. “But I want to enjoy it, so it’s worth it.”
It’s the first time I’ve tried to put words to the fight within myself. Like an intense camp friendship, Adam’s place in my life is necessarily temporary. He makes me feel like I can peel back the layer behind what I want everyone to see: My life is big and exciting. I’m worthy, I swear!
Adam stacks our sandwich baskets and buses our table. “Why does everyone romanticize walking uphill without a destination? Unless you’re wild for the woods and have nowhere to go, it’s a waste of time.”
“So you live in northern Minnesota, which is basically a giant forest, and you’ve never taken a walk in the woods.”
He pops a brow. “I go into the woods when I need to be in the woods.”
“So only when you must craft an emergency farmhouse table do you stride into the cedar trees and chop one down with great purpose? How does a live, laugh, love sign rank? Is that a need or a want ?”
“Definitely a need. Could you imagine walking into a home that didn’t give you explicit permission to live, laugh, and love all at once?”
Is he making a joke? Adam’s eyes hold mine, and the laughter that passes between us is sweet and perfect, like a giant Hubba Bubba bubble. I’d give up talking forever if we could stay just like this. But he pops the moment to say, “You don’t need to hike if it doesn’t make you happy. That sort of defeats the purpose.”
It sounds simple when he says it.
I shake my head, wrapping my green wool scarf around my neck. “It’s about embracing a better me.” He gives me the blankest expression. “You don’t get it. You live out here where it’s all at your fingertips. If I lived here, I’d totally be my ‘best self.’?”
“Yeah? What would your ‘best self’ look like up here?”
I count off on my fingers. “I’d go hiking every day. I’d finally learn to like camping. I’d travel more. I’d befriend a small-town bookstore owner and fall in love with a Christmas tree farmer.”
He raises a snarky eyebrow. “So your best life is a pretty bad Hallmark movie?”
“You have a power ranking for Hallmark movies? Adam, you’re holding out on me!”
He buttons up a flannel midlayer before pulling on his coat—khaki-side out. “As someone who has lived both in Minneapolis and on the North Shore, trust me, you’d still be you, but on the North Shore. There would be fewer people and a bigger lake, but all of the things that are keeping you from hiking and liking to camp are coming with you. And you’d be two hours from the airport, so you’re not traveling more.”
“But I wouldn’t mind the drive because Duluth Alison is also very competent at meditating.”
“Is the guy selling Christmas trees out of a Walgreens parking lot teaching you to meditate too?”
Coming around to my side of the table, Adam plucks my wool jacket from my chair and holds it open before me, like this is something we do. We dress each other. I school my features and slowly extend my arms into my sleeves, aware of his knuckles brushing my shoulders. When both elbows are draped in fabric, he drops my coat, and I shrug it on the rest of the way.
By the time I spin around, he’s already facing the window, his forehead tight and unreadable. I let him lead me out of the deli and pass in front of him as he holds open the door. The cold air hits the skin at my collarbone and I’m reminded again of my estranged nipples as Adam and I walk side by side.
Adam tilts his head down toward me as we walk, a small gesture that closes the gap between us by approximately two crucial inches. “I just think you are who you are.” He gestures to a beige truck. “This is me.”
I resist the urge to lean two more inches closer. Instead, I adjust my scarf to block the oncoming wind. “I know, Adam. I spent a very traumatic day trapped inside it.”
His eyes meet mine as he opens the passenger door, directing me toward him like a homing beacon. My legs carry me over before I can second-guess myself. “So are you going to show me the majestic beauty of your city, or what?”
Something resembling delight tugs at his features. “Hiking’s out. What is something you’ve actually wanted to do here?”
I genuinely consider the question as he crosses over to the driver’s side. “I’ve always wanted to ride the Christmas train at the railroad museum.”
“Really?” he asks, incredulous.
“Yes.” I lower the visor, trying to conceal my embarrassment. “What else am I supposed to want to do here? I’ve seen Lake Superior, and it’s just a moodier Lake Michigan.”
He exhales a laugh and pulls on the gearshift. “All right, Thomas. Whatever you like.”
“No. That nickname cannot become a thing.”
“Fine. Fine. I don’t think we can ride the Christmas train this early in the day, but we can see it at the museum.”
“You sure you don’t mind spending the afternoon at a train museum? It’s not too much of a clichéd ‘nephew visiting’ afternoon in Duluth?”
He pulls forward out of his parking spot and into the foggy street. “I’ve never taken my nephew there and it seems like a quintessential tourist experience, which I’ve never been here.”
“All right. We’ll be tourists together today.” I rub my hands together for warmth. “I want ‘Duluth Classic.’ I’m talking the equivalent of a ‘Spoonbridge, Dylan mural, Mall of America, and cap it off with juicy lucys at Hank’s’ kind of afternoon.”
“Hank’s is your idea of a quintessential juicy lucy?” His eyes flick over to me.
The juicy lucy—a cheese-stuffed burger patty—is a necessary element of all Minneapolis burger menus. The location of the perfect juicy lucy is hotly contested by those who care deeply about regional restaurant rankings and “best of” listicles.
I wrinkle my nose. “I don’t know. It’s a disgusting burger. Do you have a favorite? Is that how College Adam spent his days—eating molten-cheese-filled beef patties, burning the roof of his mouth?”
We debate burgers for the short drive to the museum.
“It’s comforting. It’s supposed to be warm and gooey,” Adam argues as we hop out of the truck, defending the storied Midwest tradition of stuffing food in other foods.
“I don’t like scalding-hot surprises when I’m seeking comfort.”
“A little heat never hurt anyone.” He opens the door to the French-chateau-style building, extending his arm out to say, After you .
“If it’s not a burger from The Nook, what’s your comfort food, then?” His question echoes through the grand hall of the restored Duluth Union Depot, which now houses the Lake Superior Railroad Museum and manages the operation of the scenic railroad along the shoreline.
His face holds a sincere intensity that indicates either a genuine interest in my banal personal trivia or a fierce determination to steal my identity. I won’t know for sure until he asks for my mother’s maiden name or the street I grew up on.
“Personal pan pizza,” I answer. “But I have to earn it through reading chapter books or no dice.”
“See, that’s what’s wrong with the education system in this country.”
“That’s what’s right with it, because now I associate reading with the taste of pepperoni and peppers. Win-win.”
I offer to buy my ticket, and he shakes his head at me, maintaining he’d never make his nephew pay for a big day out.
We walk past the traditional museum artifacts behind glass displays and into Depot Square, a re-creation of the turn-of-the-century downtown hubbub, complete with 1920s jazz music and fa?ades of old-timey storefronts. In the center is a collection of train cars: steam, electric, diesel, some dating back to the 1860s.
The two of us wander the grounds, finding a quiet, easy rhythm. I set the pace, but every so often, Adam feigns interest in a particular caboose component or a dining car table to sell the lie that he’s also getting something out of this.
“You might appreciate this one.” I gesture toward a nineteenth-century heavyweight passenger car. My voice tiptoes in the echoey space. “Carpenters and coachmakers used to build ornate wood passenger cars like this.”
We step up into the car’s salon. I watch Adam take in the floor-to-ceiling golden oak wainscoting. Green panels decorate the ceiling, bordered by gold paint in a floral design. Plush velvet couches sit unused, begging for someone in a bustle to sink into them. The car is textured, moneyed, and teeming with energy, like at any moment we’ll be kicked out by men in coats and tails looking for a spot to play cards. It’s not a relic, just momentarily out of time.
“These are my favorites.” My voice is low, like we might disturb the nonexistent passengers.
“Why did they stop making them like this?” He lightly strokes the curved wood molding as though he’s not sure he’s allowed to but is unable to help himself.
I laugh. “Money. Also, the wood cars are pretty uncomfortable to ride in. Stainless steel cars are much lighter and make a smoother ride, but they’re not nearly as luxurious looking.”
I allow myself to admire it a little longer before moving toward the exit. Adam follows and offers his hand as I descend onto the platform. His skin is hot on mine, and I hold on a beat longer than I should, averting my eyes when I finally let go.