Kristina Riggle - The Life Youve Imagined

The Life Youve Imagined

Kristina Riggle

Contents

Dedication

Dedication

To my parents, who always helped me go confidently

Epigraph

Go confidently in the direction of your dreams. Live the life youve imagined.

(MIS)QUOTED FROM HENRY DAVID THOREAUS Walden

Cami

T he taxicab exhaust curls up around me like a fist. I turn toward the departing cab and raise my hand, my mouth forming around the word wait . Then my dad comes out of the house and I know that actually, yes, this is the right place.

He remains on the porch, crossing his arms and leaning in the doorframe. For a blink before that, I could have sworn he looked happy and was leaning forward expectantly. But now hes propped up like hes always standing there and I just happened to catch him.

The house... Paint the color of dried blood has begun to peel. One front window shutter is missing and the other is leaning sideways as if trying to escape. The porch sags like a slackened jump rope.

This house was never the Taj Mahal, no.

I stride across the scruffy, weedy lawn and skip a step going up the porch.

Like what youve done with the place, I tell him, not looking him in the eye as I pass, though I tense up without meaning to.

You watch your smart mouth. He cracks his knuckles.

The inside smells as if an old folks home were in a bar: old sweat, piss, and the unmistakable aroma of beer. A regiment of brown bottles lines the kitchen table, a few of them fallen.

Your rooms the same place its always been.

First door on the right, across from the bathroom, and there it is. A small square with one small window overlooking the neighbors car, up on blocks in the gravel driveway. Its a different car, at least, from the one I remember seeing.

I can feel him standing behind me. I can almost hear the toothpick hes chewing, something he does in the morning before he starts cracking open beers.

You get here all right? he asks, then coughs hard.

No, I was in a terrible accident and couldnt make it.

He slams my bedroom door so hard the only thing hanging on the wall rattles down to the dirty beige carpet.

I pick up the brown wooden frame and blow the dust off the glass, which has gone foggy with some sticky filth of unknown origin. So I scrub the film off with the hem of my shirt, adjusting my glasses to get a proper look.

Theres me, with my hair in pigtailsI always hated to sit still so long to get those dumb braidslooking scrawnier than ever. This, I think, is my last picture without glasses. Theres Trent, too, giving the camera a thin smile. As I remember, my dad fought with him over what kind of smile he was going to give, and finally Trent produced this effort to keep the fight from getting worse. For Moms sake.

My mother, in the center, looks like me. Her face is a little fuller and she wouldnt wear her glasses, so shes got these wrinkles by her eyes from squinting all the time. Her smile is relaxed, and to me she looks relieved that we can finally get the picture and there will be no more arguing.

But maybe Im just projecting back. Maybe we didnt fight at that moment. Its hard to remember because this picture is twenty years old and my mom is long dead.

I drop my bag on the bed, and the bedsprings squeak. I wish Id been able to bring my queen-size, but its not as if I could have stashed it in the luggage area of the Greyhound bus.

I sit yoga-fashion in an old bowl-shaped chair in the corner, with a cushion so thinned by the years that the canes of the chair imprint themselves on my back. I hesitate for a moment before dialing, but I did promise.

Hey, Steve. Its me.

Hes at home. I can tell from the pattern of traffic outside and the way it echoes off the wood floors.

Hi. So you made it okay.

What is it with men and stating the obvious? I bite down my sarcasm for Steve, though. Yes. The ride was fine. I had a fascinating conversation with a pothead about the best ways to smoke in public without getting caught. He showed me a pipe that looks just like a cigarette.

He doesnt reply, and the silence is like a slap.

Look, you told me to call.

I know. Im glad you made it okay.

Now its my turn to be silent, fingering the ends of my hair and pushing my glasses around on the bridge of my nose.

Ill make it right, I offer.

You cant.

I stand up suddenly, as if he can see me and it matters. How do you know what I cant do? Ill be tutoring again in the fall and Ill get a job here this summer.

And you can gamble some more and win it back? Sure.

I can feel him holding his temper back, like yanking on the reins of a barely tamed horse. Ive seen it in his face any number of times. It was... It was a loan you were never supposed to know about. You were giving me very favorable terms. Big of you, actually.

Ha, is the only thing he says. He lets his retort hang there and I know were both going back over it, his discovery and my admission and the sordid week that followed.

So are you going to call me later, or what? I ask him.

I dont think Id better.

Now I sink back down to the edge of the bowl chair. The position feels precarious, and I tense up to keep from falling. So you dont want me to call you, either?

I dont know.

What kind of answer is that?

Ive gotta go. Ive got another call, Cami. Take care.

Hes gone.

I turn the phone over in my hand, again and again, until I look down and realize thats exactly what I do with a hand of cards.

Maeve

A s my daughter steps across the threshold, dragging her wheeled suitcase behind her, the word that floats through my mind is brittle.

Maybe she senses it, too, and maybe thats why she wont let me hug her tight.

Hi, honey, I say. Im so glad to see you. I bathe her in my smile, loving her from across the waxy countertop of this convenience store thats been my business and home for nearly as long as Ive been Annas mother.

If only Id known back in her baby days, during all those long nights of feeding and burping and rocking, that my years hugging my daughter would be counted on one hand... Well, I wouldnt have looked so forward to her sleeping through the night.

Its disorienting, thinking of her baby days as she stands before me, with her penny-colored hair pulled up tight into a bun on the back of her head and a prim fashionable black suit. Her lawyer gear, she calls it.

Sally bursts in from the alleyway door, where shed snuck off to have a smoke. The vapor follows her in and she shouts, Well, isnt this a regular Geneva convention!

She doesnt wait for permission and wraps her arms right around Anna, who allows it and waits until Sally isnt looking to sigh and send me a look that says, Geez, that same old joke. Will she ever give it a rest?

No, of course she wont. Why would Anna expect anything to change at the Nee Nance Store?

Will you still make that joke if I get married, Aunt Sal? Anna says when Sally finally releases her. She wheels her suitcase to the stairway behind the beer cooler, which leads to the upstairs apartment. Because I wont be a Geneva anymore, then.

Look, doll, Sally retorts, her hand resting on her hip. Youll always be a Geneva. You cant escape us!

Sallys black seventies-era-Cher wig is askew, giving her the effect of looking slightly sideways, and with that lopsided huge grin, she could be a maniac. Anna pats her on the shoulder indulgently and begins bumping the suitcase up the narrow stairs.

I could escape being a Geneva, technically. Sally, being my wayward husbands sister, is biologically a Geneva, as is my Anna, of course. But me? I married into the name and with some paperwork could prune myself right off the family tree.