Nymph

 

by Sam Moe

We sit on the back porch, he in his father’s suit and me in my late grandfather’s pajamas. Everyone is still sleeping. Perhaps he will change his mind before breakfast begins. Perhaps the woman in his bed will transform into a cement spider I can carry outside on tissue. Or crush.

In the meantime, we discuss leaving. He will return to Vermont the following month, first for a wedding, then forever. I am leaving, too. I don’t explain it’s because of him. If he goes, I go. My chest is a bag of river water. We are beyond the state of love as a pit. The crush is not a stone or a field mouse. Sometimes, I feel like the Atlantic is caught in my throat when I look at him.

“She’s going to find out,” he says. I know he’s right. There is no way I could ever keep a secret from mother. Her main job, other than raising me, was bloodhound, privately investigating affairs.

“What if I tell her I’m leaving on a brief trip? It’s not forever, just for now.”

The reason she doesn’t know I’m leaving is because of the times she held my jaw between her nails and screamed until my skin flaked off. There were other actions, too. They don’t belong in this story.

“You were never good at lying.”

We look at each other for a second too long. A small yellow spider cascades from the ceiling, and I retreat to the other side of the porch.

“Jeez.” He holds the web between two fingers, transporting its soft body to the balustrade. “This thing is tinier than you are.”

“It could crawl onto my body and hide in my hair.”

“Are you going to come back?”

I don’t know if he means to the porch swing or Massachusetts. Perhaps he means reality. I respond by taking the seat next to him, careful not to get too close. Each time we accidentally brush against each other; a wildfire breaks out in my lungs.

For now, we sit. I examine the pines scattered across the backyard. A single mourning dove sings. I cannot believe I survived this house, only to return to take care of mother. Perhaps daughters bear a duty to take care of their mothers, even if their mothers hate them, and their mother’s mother hates them, too. An entire lineage of my family can’t stand me. It’s painful to explain why, even more painful to bear the truth; I’ll bear it.

The coffee part starts. The voices of the others are soft and low, like cotton pants swishing across warm sand. I wonder if his girlfriend is in the kitchen. Will he propose to her when they cross over into another state? Will he get down on one knee, in the mud—which he hates—and bestow a life-altering speech? Will I become sick, upon receiving the invitation.

“What are you thinking about?” he asks.

“The river.”

“Lies.”

The other night, over dinner, he jokingly said I spent too much time thinking about him.

His girlfriend bore an unreadable expression as she spooned fresh gnocchi between her shockingly white teeth.

“In fact, I barely spend any time thinking about you,” I said. “You hardly cross my mind.”

“That’s not true. I live in there rent-free. I’ve even got a summer home with five acres of land and horses.”

What was I thinking? If you had asked me a year and a half ago if I had feelings for him, I would have laughed. He had been a stranger who happened to be working and writing in the vicinity. He hadn’t yet met his girlfriend. He had a good sense of humor and thick walls around his heart, impenetrable even with a drill. We were friends until something tipped the red scales, and I fell.

I wish I could wake up a different person. Different thoughts, wants, needs. Like I didn’t think about him every second of the day. Was he breathing, eating, having a cup of chamomile tea with milk or honey. I would happily receive his stories and mundane details, if I were any other person, allowing them to softly fall into the pitted area of my mind, where useless information phases out.

If I still have you, I’d like to explain what happened. I could never do this out loud, so I’ll need you to listen carefully as I share the next few thousand words. Above all else, I need you to believe me. Leave if you must, but please don’t take the horses.

#

When I was younger, I told the wrong stories about myself. Men and women consumed bits of my personality, then my body. Sometimes, they were two decades older than me or more. Other times, they were my age. I would come home to my mother’s house, sneaking in through the first story window, covered in cigarette ash and dried tears. Sometimes blood. To cope, I destroyed my body. Mother and I fought every day. I ceased to understand reality.

The men told me I deserved the pain. These stories will not receive any more details. All you need to know is it kept happening. Into college, into graduate school, and beyond. Last December, I was a grudge in someone’s house. The men took their anger out on me. The bedroom became a trap. I was messy. There was red. To cope, I met a man in a diner with tattoos of razors on the backs of his hands and begged him to consume my heart.

Sometimes I think about telling him these stories. How in-between the violence, my friend and I would go to the river. There were rainbow fish, and my heart was only a little broken. Upon when we crossed the bridge into the heart of the forest, where sand pits filled with mica and cigarette butts lurked, things twisted again. Were these people really your friends? I imagine him saying. I don’t know anymore, I would respond.

There is a fuller version of this story. I can’t tell it here. Or perhaps it’s that I won’t. Part of me hopes he doesn’t leave, so we can continue deepening the bond of our friendship, and one day over breakfast, I will tell him I’m a survivor. He’ll hold my story gently. He’ll offer me a mug of tea.

Our friends ask why I don’t say anything. They ask why my identity changes so frequently; who is it I really want? Who do I think I am. Is fluidity out of the question? I don’t answer. Of course, I will ruin things. What else would a person like me deserve but tragedy?

#

She is awake.

Her hair is long, caramel in some places, black in others. I want to eat it. Instead, I head to the kitchen sink, wash my hands too many times. I glance at the steak knives and wonder.

He sits behind me at the table, stretched out with ease. The party hasn’t yet started but he claims to want to make a good impression. He wants people to be envious of his suit. His girlfriend calls him hot. One of our best friends calls him hot. He calls to me over the rush of water, asks what I think about his suit. When will I change out of my pajamas?

“I don’t know how to respond to any of that.”

Mother watches us from the doorway. She has been a translucent ghost for quite some time. Only a few of my friends fear her. Others who don’t believe me have never been to the house, unaware what she is capable of. They don’t understand I will continue paying for this house long after I’m gone, so the ghost of my mother can rest.

Today, she has painted her nails crimson. She wears a long, navy dress which shows cleavage. She disapproves of all love, but for some reason enjoys his girlfriend. She says she is funny. Mother, what would you know about any of this?

I leave for my childhood bedroom. The band posters have since peeled off the walls, the furniture remains. When I was relapsing, I wonder what mouther thought. Did she find the packets of gauze, the bright, sharp things I tucked away in corners? Did she wonder why I scarred in some places, healed in others? What happened when she pulled the old blue rug.

I examine myself in the mirror. My body feels frail from chronic pain. Some days are easier than others. Today is more like a five. I wonder if he would understand if I told him. How much I need someone to gently rub my arms and legs in the evening, to tuck me into bed when I can’t feel my hands. Am I enough for him to stay?

There is the softest of knocks on my door and I know the hand who bears the sound is my best friend, Sophie. She enters smelling of caramel and bearing an outfit in a translucent bag. We sit at the edge of my bed and eat strawberry candies and wonder.

“Do you think it’s going to last?”

She shakes her head. “You could convince him to stay, you know.”

I lean back on the bed, hiding my flushing cheeks.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

She rubs circles across my hand and I try not to think about how he and I have the same palmar flexion creases.

“Okay,” she says. As in, I won’t pester you. But darling, you’re wrong.

We sit like that for quite some time. Until his shape fills the doorway, asking if we’re ready. I’m still in my grandfather’s blue pajamas. My hair is a tangled mess, like snakes. He enters anyway and sits in the green armchair. When she says his name, I feel as though a smooth piece of ice melts, coating one of my organs in peppermint.

“Where’s your girlfriend, Roland?”

“I don’t know, Sophie. Where’s your husband?”

They banter, always using each other’s first names for emphasis. More pieces of ice are placed inside my stomach. I wish someone was so infatuated with me they wrote about me all the time.

“Caprice almost died earlier,” he says, and I forget daydreams. How useless, to be filled with so much.

“I did not. There was a spider on the porch, but Roland discarded it.”

“Technically it’s still alive and could be somewhere in this very room.”

“Cut it out, Roland! You’re going to scare her.” Sophie again reaches for me. There, there

His girlfriend glides in. “So, this is where the party’s at.”

I want to take her. Mother enters next, disapproving. It is unclear who, this time, she is upset with; I excuse myself to the guest bathroom to change. Mustn’t waste anyone’s time before the party begins.

#

Soon, evening. The weather waxy, feels raw. Balloons, shimmering like jewels, cover the lawn. There are newly trimmed rosebushes, plates of lobster, and Cabernet Sauvignon. On the table are plans of tomato bruschetta on French bread. There are lobster tails and shimmering ramekins of hot butter. Everything is crisp and pleasant. All the seafood is a mixture of savory and sweet.

A colleague finds me hiding near the pines again.

“You’re always over here,” he says. “Like some kind of bird.”

I laugh once, loudly. “Ronan always says things like that. He calls me a hedgehog or a parrot or a hyena. What?”

“Nothing.”

“You gave me a look. Stop smirking.”

He leans in, as if he is telling a hilarious, inappropriate story, whispers, “Do you have feelings for him?”

I laugh so hard the wine jumps in my glass, a lilac fish cresting a wave.

“Don’t be ridiculous. Why would you think that?”

His name is a magnet, summoning energy I wish I could ignore. Sophie traipses over, her dress cresting the grass, hiding her bare feet. Her high heels are abandoned somewhere in the side yard. The globe lamps are on even though the sun has not yet disappeared.

“What are you two talking about?”

“Oh, just Caprice’s crush on Roland.”

I whack Coop in the arm, which only worsens things; Sophie arches her eyebrows.

“I wouldn’t know anything about that.” I contemplate throwing my wine in her face, but we’re best friends and I mustn’t do such things.

I’ve never had a best friend before. Not until Sophie and Dani, the latter who has yet to arrive at the party. In high school, the men had turned into wolves, my only best friend was a wolf, too. We would steal kiss behind the school, lying to our parents about our sexuality. She drove an old red sedan and always told me it was my turn to kiss her first. My heart was constantly in my throat, and I was so entranced by her it made taking the first step impossible. She made fun of me for years. We were together on and off, but in the background, she was always dating one of my exes. Perhaps, as Dani would say, she wasn’t my best friend after all.

Dani calls to us across the yard, husband in tow. They are both dressed in black and chain-smoking Marlborough Reds. We embrace. Without so much as a hello to Coop, Dani takes mine and Sophie’s hand and leads us into the miniature hedge maze. We walk silently until we reach the center, where a life-sized Minotaur topiary crouches with shield and sword.

“Jeez, what is it, Dani? I want to go back to the party. Being in the maze creeps me out.” Sophie lets her arms cage her frame, shivering for emphasis despite the temperature climbing into the low nineties.

“Listen. Have either of you talked to Roland?”

We shake our heads; Dani faces me.

“You need to convince him to stay.”

“What? Me? I’m not going to bother him!”

“Think about it, Caprice. He has feelings for you! I can tell. His girlfriend is just a phase.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

I try to keep my tone level. I don’t want her to think I’m upset, but I’m too scared to speak the words out loud. I’m just so tired of ruining everything.

“I’m not in love with him.”

Sophie looks at me, expression unreadable. Perhaps something akin to pity.

“Caprice,” she whispers.

Before we continue the conversation, I hear Roland’s footsteps coming around the corner. It physically pains me to know the sound of his walk.

“Angels,” he jokes.

Dani laughs hysterically. “Charlie.”

“You okay, Caprice?”

“Um, I’m fine. Why do you ask?”

Everyone keeps raising their eyebrows at me. Perhaps I should fetch more glasses of wine to toss into their faces. Mother, as a poltergeist now, hisses in my ear, cut it out!

“Can I talk to alone for a second?” he asks.

“Sure.”

I barely register Dani and Sophie as Roland and I further enter the maze.

#

The hedge extends further into the backyard than I initially thought.

Roland sighs. “The beginning of the end.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m just thinking about Vermont. And how you’re off to Oregon. What is our friend group becoming?”

“I don’t know. Admittedly, it’s making me stressed out. Do you think we’ll still be friends after you leave?”

“You’re always stressed out.”

“Be serious. Are you not going to talk to me when you leave?”

“Do you remember the first time we met?”

I stop walking. Roland pauses a few feet ahead of me, facing a pine tree. Animals begin crawling from beneath scattered leaves, entering the maze in a zigzag. We silently follow. Roland takes a cigarette and places it between his lips. I resist the urge to reach into his pocket for the lighter.

There is an amber fox with black eyes, a garden snake, three chipmunks. Soon there are white-tailed deer with woodpeckers riding on their backs. A small elk with an orange-hued pelt. Sixteen rabbits. Six ants. Ten electric blue tree frogs. I am caught between the animals and Roland’s hand, which dangles by his side. He still hasn’t lit his cigarette.

The animals stop abruptly at a fork in the road. Half of them go left and the other half go right. Ronan and I remain in the center. Finally, we face each other.

“Yes, I’m still going to be friends with you when I leave. Are you still going to be friends with me?”

“Of course I will. Why wouldn’t I?”

He smiles. A curtain of grief envelops my shoulders. Mother embraces me one last time before floating into the ether. She squeezes my frame and then the cold is replaced by swelter, and I know she’s gone forever. I’ll keep this house for you, Mother. Even if I never see you again.

“Roland?”

“Yeah?”

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you, but I don’t know how—"

In the distance, someone shrieks; a glass breaks. Laughter spills through the leaves, shimmies the six ants. I turn to Roland and find his body built of oak leaves. My own torso grows into flowers, from my stomach into my legs and arms. We are two nymphs, reaching for each other.

Overhead, fireworks cascade across the sky. I feel leftover ash falling on part of my body, but my skin feels different; I am no longer achy. Roland’s ocean-hued eyes are gone, replaced roots and pink flowers. He is reaching for my hand, but his knotted fingers are so high, they look as though they could have been headed to rip out my heart.

Hours later, people will discover our bodies. They will wonder aloud at the new shrubbery, ask where we might have gone. His girlfriend will drink a glass of Brandy on the rocks and stare at us as if we can answer. When spring thaws and summer returns, we will melt then rest, twin rose hips in dirt.