But as I looked at Roger, I also realized that it had been awhile since I’d had an interaction with a guy. Not since the night of the funeral, when I’d invited myself to Michael’s dorm room, knowing exactly what was going to happen. When I left an hour later, I was disappointed, even though I’d gotten exactly what I thought I wanted.
“It’s not true, you know,” said Roger. I looked at him, trying to figure out what he meant. “Your shirt,” he said, pointing. I glanced down at the faded blue cotton, emblazoned with ANYONE CAN WHISTLE. “I can’t,” he continued cheerfully. “Never have been able to.”
“It’s a musical,” I said shortly. He nodded, and silence fell, and I couldn’t think of anything else to say on the subject. “I should get my things,” I said, turning to the house, wondering how the hell we were ever going to get through four days.
“Sure,” he said. “I’ll load my stuff in. Do you need a hand?”
“No,” I said, heading up the stairs. “The car’s open.” Then I escaped inside, where it was blessedly cool and dark and quiet and I was alone. I took a breath, savoring the silence, then continued into the kitchen.
The gift my mother had sent was sitting on the kitchen table. It had arrived a few days ago, but I hadn’t opened it. If I opened it, it meant that the trip was actually going to happen. But there was no denying it now—the proof was making comments about my T-shirt and putting his duffel bag in the car. I tore open the package and shook out a book. It was heavy and spiral-bound, with a dark blue cover. AWAY YOU GO! was printed in white fifties-style script. And underneath that, Traveler’s Companion. Journal/Scrapbook/Helpful Hints.
I picked it up and flipped through it. It seemed to be mostly blank pages, with a scrapbook section for preserving “Your Lasting Memories” and a journal section for recording “Your Wandering Thoughts.” There also seemed to be quizzes, packing lists, and traveling tips. I shut the book and looked at it incredulously. This was the “present” my mother sent me for the trip? Seriously?
I tossed it on the counter. I wasn’t about to be tricked into thinking this was some sort of fun, exciting adventure. It was a purely functional trip that I was being forced to take. So I didn’t see any reason to make sure I’d always remember it. People didn’t buy souvenirs from airports they’d had layovers in.
I walked through the rooms on the first floor of the house, making sure that everything was in order. And everything was—Hildy the Realtor had made sure of that. All our furniture was still there—she preferred not to sell empty houses—but it no longer even felt like ours. Ever since my mother hired her, she’d taken over our house to the point where I sometimes had trouble remembering what it used to feel like when we were all just living in it, and it wasn’t being sold to people as the place where they’d always be happy. It had started to feel more like a set than a house. Too many deluded young marrieds had traipsed through it, seeing only the square footage and ventilation, polluting it with their furniture dreams and imagined Christmases. Every time Hildy finished a showing and I was allowed to come back from walking around the neighborhood with my iPod blasting Sondheim, I could always sense the house moving further away from what it had been when it was ours. Strange perfume lingered in the air, things were put in the wrong place, and a few more of the memories that resided in the walls seemed to have vanished.
I climbed the stairs to my room, which no longer resembled the place I’d lived my whole life. Instead it looked like the ideal teen girl’s room, with everything just so—meticulously arranged stacks of books, alphabetized CDs, and carefully folded piles of clothing. It now looked like “Amy!’s” room. It was neat, orderly, and devoid of personality—probably much like the imaginary shiny-haired girl who lived in it. Amy! was probably someone who baked goods for various sports teams and cheered wholeheartedly at pep rallies without contemplating the utter pointlessness of sports or wanting to liven things up with a little torch song medley. Amy! probably babysat adorable moppets up the street and smiled sweetly in class pictures and was the kind of teen that any parent would want. She probably would have giggled and flirted with the cute guy in her driveway, rather than failing miserably at a simple conversation and running away. Amy! had not, in all probability, killed anyone recently.
My gaze fell to my nightstand, which had on it only my alarm clock and a thin paperback, Food, Gas, and Lodging. It was my father’s favorite book, and he’d given me his battered copy for Christmas. When I’d opened it, I’d been disappointed—I’d been hoping for a new cell phone. And it had probably been totally obvious to him that I hadn’t been excited about the present. It was thoughts like that, wondering if I had hurt his feelings, that ran through my head at three a.m., ensuring that I wouldn’t get any sleep.
When he’d given it to me, I hadn’t gotten any further than the title page. I’d read his inscription: To my Amy—this book has seen me through many journeys. Hoping you enjoy it as much as I have. With love, Benjamin Curry (your father). But then I’d stuck it on my nightstand and hadn’t opened it again until a few weeks ago, when I’d finally started reading it. As I read, I found myself wondering with every turn of the page why I couldn’t have done this months ago. I’d read to page sixty-one and stopped. Marking page sixty-two was a note card with my father’s writing on it, some notes about Lincoln’s secretary, part of the research he’d been doing for a book. But it was in the novel as a bookmark. Page sixty-one was the place he’d gotten to when he’d last read it, and somehow I couldn’t bring myself to turn the page and read beyond that.
I still had no idea what Walter saw. I wasn’t sure I was ever going to know. But I wasn’t about to leave the book behind. I picked it up and tucked it carefully in my purse. I gave the room a last look, turned out the light, dragged my rolling suitcase out into the hall, and closed the door behind me. It was actually a relief not to see the room anymore. In the past month, I’d spent almost no time in it, crashing downstairs on the couch most nights and just heading up to get clothes. It was too stark a reminder of my life Before. And it still didn’t make any sense to me that absolutely everything in my life could have changed, that it all could have become After, but the pictures on my walls and the junk in the back of my closet remained the same. And after Hildy’s Amy! makeover, it seemed like the room had become a version of myself that I would never live up to.