We Run the Tides(25)

She turns again at the end of the passageway. The low sun hits her nightgown and I can see her pale thin legs through the thin material. “You know there’s no class over the holidays, yes?” she says.

Does she really think that’s why I came to the studio today? To restart classes?

“Oh, right,” I say, playing along, backing away from her like a silent-film burglar. “I forgot.”

The comic-book store across the street seems extra busy today, and I peek inside. Could Maria Fabiola be there? If she’s hiding out in the shed, she must need books to read. A dozen boys are inside, pretending to browse. It takes me a minute to realize what they’re really looking at is the guy from Mork & Mindy. He’s inside the store, reading a comic book and laughing. The boys and the clerk, a young woman who’s the kind of girl that comic store nerds would have a crush on—dyed purple hair, large chest contained (and augmented) by a snug black top—are speechless. The only sound in the store is the actor’s laughter. How can he be so impervious to their stares? Maybe he’s used to the attention. Maybe he likes it. Maybe he feels most alive when others are looking at him. I try to decide if I feel this way, too.





16


Christmas vacation. School gets out early—the Volvos are waiting in the horseshoe driveway. Even though it’s cold out, the windows are rolled down so the mothers can share news about where they’re off to for vacation. The next morning they’ll leave for the East Coast for family, or Aspen or Tahoe for skiing, or Maui or Lanai for snorkeling and a tan. Svea’s going to spend the first week of vacation with her dour friend’s mom and the mom’s new boyfriend. They’re going skiing in Mammoth. I’m not going anywhere.

I spend the days leading up to Christmas at my dad’s gallery. I help Arlene file paperwork, and when I have breaks, I open a drawer in the spice cabinet and inhale, before closing it and opening the next one.

In the evenings I walk by Maria Fabiola’s house and try to peer in the windows. All the lights are on, all the curtains closed. It looks as though they’re living inside a lampshade—figures moving behind linen.

I quickly fall into the routine of waking up and walking up the street to collect the newspaper, reading it to see if there are any updates about Maria Fabiola—there’s never anything new—eating breakfast with my dad, helping out at the art gallery during the day, and taking a solitary evening walk around the neighborhood to check on Maria Fabiola’s house.

On the fifth day of my vacation, I step into the gallery and immediately notice something’s different. The spice cabinet—it’s missing. It was there for so long that I never imagined one day it might be gone.

“Where’d it go?” I ask Arlene. My heart is beating fast.

“Somebody bought it,” she says. “It was picked up last night after you left.” She’s gruff when she says this, annoyed that I asked. It’s that time of the month.

*

SVEA COMES HOME FROM MAMMOTH with a pale neck and a tan from her chin up. When she’s asked about her trip, she says it was good, but she noticed her friend could be a bit of a downer, which was a downer. I’m about to express my incredulity that she’s never noticed a defining character trait of her best friend before, but I stop myself. There’s so much I didn’t know about Maria Fabiola until recently.

I join my father in the study to watch the news. Tonight, there’s only a brief segment about Maria Fabiola. The same photo appears. Then the anchorwoman talks about the last-minute rush for Christmas trees.

*

WE CELEBRATE CHRISTMAS the Swedish way, on Christmas Eve. All day the phone rings—my mother’s friends and relatives from Sweden. We eat ham and my mom heats up glogg and even lets Svea and me eat the wine-soaked raisins at the bottom of her small cup. At 8 p.m. we go to church. The service is full of carols and candles. A dark-haired girl dressed in white plays the harp. When it’s time to offer up the names of people in our community who are in need of our prayers and support, there are many mentions of Maria Fabiola. My parents utter Maria Fabiola’s parents’ names as well.

We go home and sit in the front room next to all the straw goats that Swedes put out at Christmastime. I don’t really understand this tradition, or the fact that in my opinion the traditional straw figures more closely resemble horses than goats. But now is not the time to ask questions—I’m eager to open the presents under the tree. This takes four minutes because not only do we celebrate Christmas the Swedish way, we celebrate it the stingy way. The gifts are soft so I know before opening them that I’ve gotten socks and underwear. From the fireplace hangs my Christmas stocking, with my name misspelled as “Ulabee.” A family friend gave me the stocking years ago and despite the misspelling, which makes me disappointed in the American educational system, we still use it. The stockings are mostly decorative anyway; tomorrow my stocking will be filled with pencils.

“I have a surprise,” my father says. “It was too big to wrap.” From behind the piano, he slides out a rectangular-shaped object, the size of a painting. He carefully removes the protective cloth and reveals it is a painting. It depicts kids playing at the beach.

“That’s beautiful, Joe,” my mother says.

“It’s for the family,” my dad says.

“Who’s the artist?” I say.