Chapter Thirteen
I am not great at unstructured time, but I was determined to change that summer. Any new habit starts out uncomfortable, right?
in love and be able to be in the stillness, a place that the maddeningly soft-spoken woman on my meditation app swore existed in all of us. Just not me, generally.
I wrote until noon and then consulted my COUNTY ACTIVITIES list. Hike the Macauley Mountain, see the birdhouse sanctuary, eat at Stella’s, go to an art gallery, buy a book by a local author.
The writing had been forced, but I’d kept at it. In the end there were two scenes that I might keep. I was distracted by the
fact that Dave had invited me to ride horses with him that afternoon.
Ben not getting back to me had stopped bothering me in a romantic sense. I’d always been someone who could gracefully cut
my losses, with one notable exception who happened to like chain-sawing tree limbs while shirtless in my periphery. But Dave
was now officially my friend, only my friend and property manager. He was still in his cabin, quiet. I, a smart person with two degrees, googled “How
to stop being attracted to someone.” The answer was to put your energy elsewhere, into things you enjoy. Thus I consulted
my list. The activities had to be unique to the county, preferably involve being outside, and not involve my phone.
I texted this plan to Marlon. His reply: What’s with the positive attitude and wholesome activities list? You better not become a trad wife.
What do you suggest I do, meth?
At least end the day watching a John Waters movie or leaving bitchy troll comments on Christian influencer accounts.
Deal. How are you? How is Kris?
One of the producers (White Steve? Or Matt 3?) called me “indispensable” today.
White Steve has the patchy beard, Matt 3 has the flavour savour.
OK it was White Steve. Also ??re: Matt 3. No wonder I hear Smash Mouth whenever he’s around.
And Kris?
Kris worked from home this month and is therefore spending his time hiding from your mother.
Ugh. Sorry.
Have you started teaching the children about Nora Ephron yet?
I start Monday. I have not heard from Ben thus have zero direction at all.
That he volunteered to be your fake boyfriend and then ghosted is a bit sus.
Has he mentioned me?
Actors don’t speak to me. I am invisible.
It’s because your face says Don’t Fucking Talk to Me.
No it’s racism.
Omg for real?
50/50 yes, 50/50 my face says don’t try.
Noted.
The only way that Ben’s lack of contact was getting to me was as someone starting a job the following Monday with zero direction at all.
I like to be prepared. I admire people who know how to wing it, but I am not one of those people.
I sent him a text that read: Do I have carte blanche with my workshop lesson plan?
Can I teach Taxi Driver or Silence of the Lambs without parents losing
their minds? And what’s the schedule? He didn’t answer.
I drove to Bloomfield to get coffee. The lush green, budding trees around me as I drove home felt like a balm against urgency.
Everything in its own time, I thought, stopping to let a group of wild rabbits cross the road. I thought about how many times I’d written dialogue for
women who were “trying to get out of their comfort zone” by escaping to smaller places to find love and nervous system regulation.
Was I was slowly becoming the heroine of my own clichéd scripts? The sky was brilliant blue, the wind calm and still. This
would be a great day for filming outdoor scenes. Even just glancing up as I drove was refilling the tank of my imagination,
readying me to write my script. I got out of the car, coffee high and inspired, and sat at the picnic table, writing several
pages, the kind of writing I knew was going to keep me deep in the story all day, no matter what else I did. Unlike the morning,
I was sunk in.
The table outside my cabin was proving to be a good writing spot if Dave wasn’t loudly renovating next door. And he wasn’t.
I hadn’t seen or heard him since he got in earlier that morning. What a balm it was to write scenes that weren’t burdened
by clichéd stakes and the expected beat progression of the modern low-budget romance meant for cable TV. The love story is
a classic for a reason, but it rarely follows the path producers want in real life. Life is far more complicated, isn’t it?
I thought about David Lynch saying that he didn’t know why people expect art to make sense, that they accept the fact that
life doesn’t make sense. I wrote down rewatch Blue Velvet? on my list of vacation things to do. This was an item that would please Marlon.
With the exception of Okanagan’s occasional brushing of my legs, I didn’t see another soul until mid-afternoon.
Being alone that long felt indulgent, luxurious.
I wasn’t tired of it at all when a woman on a bicycle appeared, biking right up to my solitary oasis, skidding to a stop.
She leaned the bike against the oak tree.
She had long, brown hair in a loose side braid that fell halfway down her front.
She was wearing denim overalls, a white T-shirt, and Birks. She had a warm energy.
“Hey, I’m Neve. Ben’s sister. You Elise?” She had a smile meant for toothpaste commercials. Was his entire family so photogenic?
“Yeah, you here for your mom’s car?”
“I am, but I also coordinate the camp, you know, the nuts-and-bolts details,” she said, handing me a folder she pulled out
of her backpack. It had a pleasing white sticker on the front with my name written in thick marker. “Ben told me you had some
questions? We really let the last writing teacher do whatever she wanted, just keep in mind that by the end of the summer,
most of the kids should be able to write and then shoot their own little videos. That’s the promise, and the goal. They also
have the option to write a short play, depending on whether they are more into theatre or screen. But go wild doing whatever
you want. We’ve never had someone so experienced before. They’re with you every morning from ten to noon, after they’ve done
an hour of improv and before lunch. In the afternoons they’ll do acting workshop from one to three, and for those special
kids who are the oldest, they’ll do a directing workshop before pickup at five-thirty. Those who aren’t in the directing stream
will do either singing or movement or go to the beach, depending on the day. We’ve got thirty-five kids this year, our biggest
group.”
It was a lot to take in. She didn’t look shy to have monologued at me.
“Oh, OK, great. Thanks for this. I’d just texted Ben earlier asking what was going on but he hasn’t been answering.”
“Yeah, Ben is really great at communication when you’re right in front of him. But it’s like people fade from his mind when
they’re not. Used to drive his ex nuts.”
“I believe it,” I said, hoping she didn’t know anything about Ben and I fake dating. “What do you teach?”
“I’m doing improv this year, which my mom usually teaches, but she’s kind of out of commission. Ben does the acting, obviously.
Alan, who has been at the camp since it started, does the music. And then a couple of new young people from Queens are doing
the movement classes. They’re also employed all day to be with the kids as extra helpers with group dynamics or any problems
that arise, like regular camp counsellors. So you don’t have to worry about that stuff. And I hired them so they’re not just
hot girls Ben wants to flirt with.”
Sheesh. I had either really read Ben ALL wrong, or she was an unreliable source. Were she and Ben in a fight or were they always this
openly disdainful of each other? Not really questions I could ask the utter stranger in front of me.
“Dave’s been good helping you get settled and with the water heater and all that?”
“Yeah, yeah. He’s been great.”
“He’s a solid guy. My dad usually takes care of the cabins, but he’s been on Mom duty and keeps the farm going, so we’ve had
to bring in extra help.” So she doesn’t hate everyone. Maybe they are involved.
“We actually worked at the same camp together when we were younger. Up north. The film camp.”
Her face completely changed. I couldn’t read it, though.
“You’re that Elise?”
“The one and only.” Why did she know about me? I suppose she and Dave were close.
“The world is small,” she said, gathering up her things and seeming less friendly. “The keys in the car?”
“Yup, please thank your mom for me again. It was so generous of her.”
“She was happy to.” She looked as though she was going to say something else, but wasn’t sure if she should. Then Dave opened the cabin door and Baby ran barking toward us.
“You know me, Baby, it’s Neve!” He got halfway to her and realized who she was and kept bounding but in a friendlier way.
Dave emerged from his cabin and gave us a wave.
“You look like you had a fun night,” Neve called across the lawn, laughing, leaving me to my laptop. Her walk changed as she approached him;
she was hopping like a bunny on her tiptoes. She hugged him tight but not for very long. I was too far to eavesdrop but I
tried to read their body language. Maybe they were involved somehow? Or maybe just good friends. Dave caught me staring so
I looked back down at my screen. By the time I looked up again, Neve was getting in the car and gave us both a little two-beep
goodbye. Maybe they kissed and I hadn’t seen it. This would haunt me. The next time I looked up, Dave was standing right in
front of me.
“You are a quiet walker,” I said, with a startle.
“I’m half sloth on my mother’s side.”
“Well, you’re wearing a convincing human suit.”
“That’s the trick of it. So, you wanna ride a horse?”
“Want is an interesting verb. I’m going to ride a horse. But I am already stress-sweating about it.”
“Snow is a beautiful, calm lady. If she shows any signs of being stressed by your stress, I can handle it.”
“You have grown into a very competent adult. What happened to the guy who didn’t know you shouldn’t stand up in a canoe?”