My Dark Vanessa(81)

My brain shorts out at the thought—a flash of bright light and pain. The car swerves into the soft shoulder, then back onto the road.

Norumbega is unchanged: the tree-lined river, the bookstore, the head shop, the pizza place, the bakery, Browick’s hilltop campus glinting above downtown. I park in his driveway, behind the station wagon. The same one we drove from campus to his house, then later through the down east woods, his free hand resting between my legs. So much time has passed, but it feels just like two years ago; I’m wearing the same clothes, look the same, or maybe I’ve gotten older and not realized it. Is there a chance he might not recognize me? I remember the shade of disappointment on his face when I turned sixteen. Practically a woman now. Maybe I’ve been hardened and aged. I feel tough, or at least tougher than I was. But why? I haven’t actually been through anything. I saw a car crash through the trees, talked to some men online, came close to being kidnapped by a loser with a gun collection, ate a lot of pie in a diner by myself. Maybe that all adds up to a kind of wisdom. I wonder whether I’d even fall for it if he were my teacher now.

Like a cop, I bang on his front door rather than knock because I want to scare him, and I half expect him not to answer, to stand unmoving in the middle of his living room and hold his breath until I give up and leave. It’s possible he doesn’t want to see me ever again; maybe that was his goal when he had me sent away, to thrust me out of his life along with all the life-ruining repercussions I embody.

But no—he opens the door right away, like he was waiting on the other side. He throws it open wide, reveals himself, looking older and younger at the same time, more gray in his beard, longer hair. His arms are tan. He wears a T-shirt and shorts, boat shoes with no socks, pale legs covered in dark hair.

“My god,” he says. “Look at you.”

He brings me inside, his hand on my back. The scent of his house, something I hadn’t thought to miss, fills my head, and I hold up my hands to ward it off. He asks if I want anything to drink, gestures to the living room and tells me to sit down. He opens the refrigerator, pulls out two bottles of beer. It’s barely past noon.

“Happy birthday,” he says as he hands me a bottle.

I don’t take it. “I know what you did,” I say, trying to hold on to the anger, but the words come out as squeaks. I’m a mouse already on the verge of tears. He touches his hand to my face to soothe me. I jerk away, and as I do I think of the line from Lolita, when Humbert finds Lo after so many years: “I’ll die if you touch me.”

“You had them kick me out,” I say.

I expect his face to go pale and slack, the look of someone caught, but he barely flinches. He just blinks a few times, like he’s trying to find an entry point into my anger. Once he gets there, he smiles.

“You’re upset,” he says.

“I’m pissed.”

“Ok.”

“You’re the one who got me kicked out. You threw me away.”

“I didn’t throw you away,” he says gently.

“But you got me kicked out.”

“We did that together.” He smiles with a furrowed brow, like he’s confused, like I’m being ridiculous. “Don’t you remember?”

He tries to jog my memory, says that I told him I’d take care of everything, that he can still see the determined look on my face, resolved to take the fall. “I couldn’t have stopped you even if I’d wanted to,” he says.

“I don’t remember saying that.”

“Well, regardless, you did. I remember it perfectly.” He takes a drink of beer, wipes his mouth on his wrist, and adds, “You were very brave.”

I try to remember the last conversation he and I had before I left—in his backyard, night falling around us. How panicked I was, begging him to tell me it would be ok, that I hadn’t ruined everything. He seemed horrified by me; that’s what I remember most about that conversation: his look of repulsion as he watched me fall apart, hiccups and snotty nose. I don’t remember saying I’d take care of anything. I just remember him saying we would be ok.

“I didn’t know I was going to get expelled,” I say. “You never told me that was going to happen.”

He lifts his shoulders. My bad, oh well. “Even if it wasn’t spelled out, it must have been obvious that was the only way we were going to wrangle our way out of the utter hell that threatened us.”

“You mean it was the only way you were going to get away with not going to jail.”

“Well, yes,” he agrees. “That was absolutely part of my thinking. Of course it was.”

“But what about me?”

“What about you? Look at you. Aren’t you ok? You certainly look ok. You look beautiful.”

My body reacts even if I don’t want it to. An intake of breath so sharp, air whistles through my teeth.

“Look,” he says, “I understand that you’re angry, that you feel hurt. But I did the best I could. I was terrified, you know? So instincts kicked in. I wanted to protect myself, sure, but you were at the forefront of my mind as well. Getting you away from Browick saved you from an investigation that might’ve wrecked you. Your name in the papers, a notoriety you have no control over following you like a pall. You wouldn’t have wanted that. You wouldn’t have survived it.” His eyes travel over me. “All this time, I assumed you understood why I did it. I even thought you’d forgiven me. Wishful thinking, I guess. I could’ve projected too much wisdom onto you. I know I did that at times.”