Chapter 5 #4
James asked how I felt. My eyes pricked with tears, so I pulled Silver closer and stuck my face into her damp fur.
I wondered what she was thinking. Probably nothing.
Between the swim and her dishwasher pillage, she’d had a successful day.
I envied the emptiness of her mind, then felt bad for doubting her capacity for a rich inner life.
Really, I envied her inability to speak.
She would never be compelled to participate in conversation, feign knowledge, or articulate impossible feelings.
She did not have words for how she felt to begin with.
I thought back to what I said to Mrs. Hartley at the end of the night, drunk and vindictive, and all the things I either didn’t know to say or said poorly. Speaking was a trap, it ruined things—
“Katie?” James asked. “Are you planning on suffocating down there?”
I looked up. “I thought Mrs. Hartley was really mean.”
“I know.” James’s voice was gentle. “You practically told her she was a bad mother.”
“I’m sorry.” My throat tightened. “I don’t know why I said that, it was terrible.”
“No, it’s okay. She was being mean. She has a mean streak.
” James looked distracted, like it pained him to concede this.
“She’s a good person. She looked after me for weeks at a time when my mom got sick.
To be honest, I think part of me still sees her like I did when I was a kid. Like she’s someone I need to impress.”
“Why didn’t you tell me that?”
“I’m sorry.” He fiddled with the bedsheet. “It’s the kind of thing I’d prefer not to know before meeting someone, I guess.”
I burrowed deeper into Silver. Layered beneath the perfume of her fur, close to her pale pink skin, was a nuttier, more animal smell. “Do you think it’s weird that you’re older than me?”
“No, I don’t think so. And it doesn’t matter what Julia thinks.”
“You just said she’s like your second mother.”
“Well, she’s not in our relationship. And she’s judging you based on shallow things.”
I grew alarmed. “Like my eye?”
“What? No, not at all. Work, for example.”
“Work.” I felt a wave of anger. “Why’d you have to bring up my collections?”
“Because I think you’re very artistic.”
“It made me come across like a total loser.”
“You’re so mean to yourself. You’re good at art. You could seriously pursue it if you wanted to. Isabelle knows some people, I’m sure she could connect you.”
This was not a new discussion topic. I resented how often James insisted on my ability to make a profession out of my art. Just because I was good at something didn’t mean I wanted to, or could, keep doing it.
Anytime I thought about jobs, or building a career, my chest felt overstuffed and empty at the same time.
My mother and I never discussed what my life would look like outside of home, and in high school, when my counselor suggested I apply to a few out-of-state colleges, I actively hid the paperwork.
Lou liked to say I was lucky. “You’re probably the only person in this school whose parents don’t care what their future looks like,” she said.
It was true that I’d gotten lucky in life.
My English teacher offered to read over my college essays, and my counselor told me about my financial aid application the night before it was due.
But maybe my luck wasn’t good. Maybe I wasn’t meant to have the things I got, because I didn’t know what to do after getting them.
James talked constantly about the significance of making choices, but outside of leaving Little Rock, I hadn’t chosen anything.
I went to my university because it gave me the most money.
I majored in communications because it was popular, easy, and so general as to not really constitute a choice.
And I lived with Lou after graduation because I couldn’t afford anything else.
Probably the only significant choice I made was inviting James back to my place when we first met, but I was blackout drunk.
Besides, he would’ve never let someone in that state travel home alone.
James took my hand. Even if I had the energy to explain what I was feeling, I wasn’t sure I could find the right words.
Mrs. Hartley’s voice resounded through my head: What do you think, Katie?
Maybe she wasn’t trying to be cruel. Maybe I was too sensitive.
I recalled Isabelle’s pained restraint, the poise with which she suffered each of her mother’s jabs.
In comparison, my outburst felt insipid, shallow.
I smushed my face into Silver’s fur again and wondered if I was self-possessed enough to suffocate myself.
“Please don’t feel bad.” James pulled my shoulder.
“Isabelle adores you, she texted me saying as much.” He raised Silver in the air with one hand and used his other to wave her paw at me, like she was a puppet.
In a squeaky voice that did not suit Silver at all, he said, “I think you’re great, Katie! ”
I took her from James and let myself weep into her fragrant body. James stroked my hair and made shushing noises. “Don’t worry,” he said. “You’re okay.”
Silver’s eyes closed. Soon her breathing slowed, and she fell asleep.
I let my eyes close, too, but not before looking at James one last time.
Why was he with me? Mrs. Hartley’s instincts seemed correct: there was something imbalanced about our relationship.
Every day, even now, I was taking something from him, his sincerity a vulnerability most people didn’t have.
This I pictured as a downy patch of fur nestled deep between the folds of his heart, my finger poking through the dark, stroking until it became matted.