the girl who collects shells
Part 1/?: Addison and Sam, between Connecticut and California. After 4.14, before 4.16 -- what comes in between.
"Addison, would you please take off those sunglasses?"
"It's too bright," she says.
"I can't see you. I can't see your face when you're wearing those things. Please, Addison."
She removes the glasses slowly, folds them into her fist. The leftover snow reflects the sun into her eyes and she blinks hard, staring at the pine trees over his right shoulder.
"Look at me." Sam cups her cheek with a cold palm. "I need to see your face. It doesn't have to be this way, Addison. We don't always have to take one step forward, two steps back."
She considers this, watches the others load the car. Sam gives her a quick, hard hug. It's over before she can return it, sunglasses cradled protectively in one hand. He kisses her chastely and then he's gone. She retreats to the portico, watching as the oversized black car glides away along the private drive. When she can no longer make out its rear window, she steps into the foyer and closes the front door with decisive click.
Alone in the oak-paneled library, she mixes a martini, thinks about what needs to be done before she can leave. There's something about this house that constricts her chest, makes it impossible to draw the kind of deep, lung-cleansing breath she knows she needs. There's wine, keeping her at a low, functioning hum, and when that's not enough there's gin. There's the costume, black and pearls and tasteful heels and a sterling barrette she hasn't seen in years, discovered in her vanity drawer.
She wore the costume like a shield, and she was fine, everything polite and chilly, a numbed hum, until Sam confronted her in her old bedroom after the memorial service. The last time someone had grabbed her like that she'd been forced out of her house, barefoot and hysterical, and it was panic memory that first made her strain anxiously at his surprisingly iron clasp. Sam contained her awkward lunges, not loosening his grip until she collapsed in the first tears she'd shed since discovering the body. She'd sobbed in his arms, Sam waiting until her crying had tapered to press his forehead to hers, demand the truth one more time. She was broken open by then and the words tumbled out hoarsely. Suicide. Pills. The note. The fucking necklace.
Afterwards he'd rocked her, kissed the dark red smudges his fingers had imprinted on her upper arms. Cleaned her up so she could break the news to her brother. Exhausted, she'd fallen asleep fully clothed, head in Sam's lap, his hands knotted in her hair. She woke up in bed, his arm heavy across her stomach, early sun streaming in the window.
Even after a few years in southern California, the wintry New England sun glared painfully; the first thing she did as they walked away from the freshly dug earth was to replace her sunglasses. Sam took her elbow, Naomi and the Captain on either side of Archer behind them. "Careful," he murmured as her heels sank slightly in the half-frozen grass.
Back at the house, just outside the front door, he guided her away from the others. "How are you holding up, really?"
"I'm fine," she said.
"I can stay longer." He searched her face.
"Don't be silly," she said, kissed him briskly. "Your patients need you."
"Addison..."
"You came," she said. "You were here, Sam. You were right. Okay? But now it's done, and you can go. I'm fine now. I'll be back in a few days."
He slept that night spooned around her, a calf thrown over hers.
She flies commercial back to LA and as the town car whisks her away from the estate, down the parkway, sunglasses firmly in place, she sinks into the soft leather and thinks she won't mind if the ride doesn't end.
The Manhattan skyline is painfully bright in the late-morning sun as they cross the Whitestone Bridge. She's always liked the Whitestone: on one side, the city lights, close enough to touch, the picturesque Throgs Neck on the other side, ringed with sailboats in the summer, smoky grey water in the winter. She likes to be in between things.
She's spent so many hours in the back of so many town cars just like this one. Crossed so many bridges, carried over the same roads. That's the thing about cars like these, they're indistinguishable and so are her memories sometimes. She blinks and it's fifteen years ago.
They were all but engaged, but Derek still wanted to ask the Captain for her hand; she'd protested but secretly been pleased. They took the train up to Greenwich on a rare evening off, Addison flushed with pleasure to be that couple, the one that hogs a five-seat cluster so they can face each other, knees bumping, sharing the Times crossword, attracting stares, laughing softly at jokes no one else can hear.
The Captain wasn't even there. Yes, he knew they were coming, but he'd been called into work, Bizzy told them. "He's a professor," Addison hissed under her breath, anger a pale cover for the hurt, and her mother turned a cold smile on her. "Mumbling is uncouth, dear."
Bizzy disappeared into the study with Susan directly after dinner (plans for the City Ballet gala, they'd said at the time, but Addison snorts now at the memory, at her own childish stupidity).
"Addie, maybe we should go," Derek whispered as Bizzy closed the study door smartly behind her. She ignored him. "Addie, maybe you should slow down," Derek whispered as they perched on stiff chairs in the library, Addison taking welcome gulps of her fourth drink. She ignored him. "Addie, I don't think he's coming back tonight," Derek said finally. It was nearly ten o'clock. "We have early rounds." He folded and refolded a train schedule in his hand like origami, the bright red taunting her. Addison took a defiant swallow of gin, tears threatening. "We can try to come back next week," he said, his tone placating, both of them knowing they won't.
Bizzy sent them home in a town car. "I had no idea you were still here," she said coolly. "Really, Addison, one doesn't go to the station at this hour."
Addison had stared out the window as the estate disappeared behind her, not uttering a sound until they were speeding down the frosty Merritt Parkway. And then she'd sobbed in Derek's arms. He held her, shushed her quietly, one nervous eye on the uniformed driver. Derek was uncomfortable with a stranger present, with feeling his detached pity. But Addison had been riding in chauffered cars since before she could walk. She'd long ago learned the art of pretending no one else could see her. "Addie, don't cry." His words were partially muffled by her hair. "Your parents, they're just, you know, it's just how they are."
"I wanted them to be happy for me!" she'd cried.
"They are. They will be, in their way. Come on, Addie. Don't cry." He'd said all the right things, stroked her hair, let her cry herself out against him and by the time they approached the Triboro Bridge, she'd calmed down and slumped quietly on her own side of the car. Derek played with the fingers of her left hand as she stared out the window, her own sad eyes looking back at her from the night-mirrored glass.
Now, in the bright morning sun, she can't see her reflection in the window. It's just squat row houses and grimy billboards offering things she doesn't want. When the car pulls away without her, it's freezing at curbside, overheated as she's escorted through check-in. She flashes identification, confirms that she's traveling alone.
In some ways, she's always traveled alone.
But even with the intrusion of security, forced to surrender her heels, she's always rather liked airports: the controlled chaos, the way they are somewhere in between departure and arrival without really being anywhere at all. She appreciates the sleek anonymity of the first class lounge. A few yards away, there's a dark-haired child disappearing into an oversized club chair, murmuring softly to an adult version of herself. Addison studies her, swallows a dull ache with her champagne. She eyes the bones in her left hand, watches them move as she lifts and lowers the flute. Thinks of Sam's hands, the same size as her own but somehow capable of surrounding hers completely. She reminds herself she is somewhere.
Ensconsed in one more soft leather seat, sun streaming in the jet's windows, she adjusts her sunglasses. Sips another champagne, knowing she'll metabolize it fast on the plane. New York shrinks below her, the tiny identical dollhouses of the suburbs, the sprawl of the Hamptons forking under the clouds. She's always thought of flying into New York as coming home, not even minding circling the city in a holding pattern, silver spires beneath her, always letting out a breath of relief as the jet skidded onto the coastal runways. Now she's leaving.
"Do you need anything?" the pretty flight attendant asks.
Yes. A lot of things.
She accepts more champagne instead.
The pilot welcomes them to Los Angeles. "And if this is your final destination, welcome home." His accent is faintly southern, artifically jovial. Addison wonders, not for the first time, exactly where her own final destination is. She's lived in California for nearly three years. As the wheels of the jet touch down, she thinks she is home, maybe. She could be. She has a house, and it's nothing like her parents' -- no, the Captain's, she correct herself -- drafty estate. She has a view of the ocean. She has a cat who curls on her sofa and waits for her to come home.
She has Sam.
Sam, who flew across the country even when she told him she told him he didn't need to. He followed her. He broke her down. He wants to put her back together.
She's thinking of the breadth of his shoulders, the side of his neck where she likes to tuck her head, the way he looks at her face like there's always something new, and she pulls her sunglasses off as she strides through the terminal. Without them, it's bright, it's sun-dappled marble and neon. There are palm trees outside the windows. It doesn't hurt her eyes.
She thinks maybe Sam was right. That she is ready. They took a step forward; now they can travel together in sync, into the rest of their lives. Maybe they don't need to take two steps back.
"Sam!"
Expecting only a driver, she's shocked to see him standing at arrivals, compact and handsome, a smile of recognition flashing white.
She steps into his arms. "I didn't know you were coming," she says, and then they're that couple, kissing at arrivals, catching stares, her arms twined around his neck, his hand sneaking low on her hip. But then he pulls back to look at her, grasps her forearms, his dark eyes searching but unreadable.
"We need to talk," he says, and she longs for the dim comfort of her sunglasses again.
("Hey Rabbit," by Fionn Regan.)
"Addison, would you please take off those sunglasses?"
"It's too bright," she says.
"I can't see you. I can't see your face when you're wearing those things. Please, Addison."
She removes the glasses slowly, folds them into her fist. The leftover snow reflects the sun into her eyes and she blinks hard, staring at the pine trees over his right shoulder.
"Look at me." Sam cups her cheek with a cold palm. "I need to see your face. It doesn't have to be this way, Addison. We don't always have to take one step forward, two steps back."
She considers this, watches the others load the car. Sam gives her a quick, hard hug. It's over before she can return it, sunglasses cradled protectively in one hand. He kisses her chastely and then he's gone. She retreats to the portico, watching as the oversized black car glides away along the private drive. When she can no longer make out its rear window, she steps into the foyer and closes the front door with decisive click.
Alone in the oak-paneled library, she mixes a martini, thinks about what needs to be done before she can leave. There's something about this house that constricts her chest, makes it impossible to draw the kind of deep, lung-cleansing breath she knows she needs. There's wine, keeping her at a low, functioning hum, and when that's not enough there's gin. There's the costume, black and pearls and tasteful heels and a sterling barrette she hasn't seen in years, discovered in her vanity drawer.
She wore the costume like a shield, and she was fine, everything polite and chilly, a numbed hum, until Sam confronted her in her old bedroom after the memorial service. The last time someone had grabbed her like that she'd been forced out of her house, barefoot and hysterical, and it was panic memory that first made her strain anxiously at his surprisingly iron clasp. Sam contained her awkward lunges, not loosening his grip until she collapsed in the first tears she'd shed since discovering the body. She'd sobbed in his arms, Sam waiting until her crying had tapered to press his forehead to hers, demand the truth one more time. She was broken open by then and the words tumbled out hoarsely. Suicide. Pills. The note. The fucking necklace.
Afterwards he'd rocked her, kissed the dark red smudges his fingers had imprinted on her upper arms. Cleaned her up so she could break the news to her brother. Exhausted, she'd fallen asleep fully clothed, head in Sam's lap, his hands knotted in her hair. She woke up in bed, his arm heavy across her stomach, early sun streaming in the window.
Even after a few years in southern California, the wintry New England sun glared painfully; the first thing she did as they walked away from the freshly dug earth was to replace her sunglasses. Sam took her elbow, Naomi and the Captain on either side of Archer behind them. "Careful," he murmured as her heels sank slightly in the half-frozen grass.
Back at the house, just outside the front door, he guided her away from the others. "How are you holding up, really?"
"I'm fine," she said.
"I can stay longer." He searched her face.
"Don't be silly," she said, kissed him briskly. "Your patients need you."
"Addison..."
"You came," she said. "You were here, Sam. You were right. Okay? But now it's done, and you can go. I'm fine now. I'll be back in a few days."
He slept that night spooned around her, a calf thrown over hers.
She flies commercial back to LA and as the town car whisks her away from the estate, down the parkway, sunglasses firmly in place, she sinks into the soft leather and thinks she won't mind if the ride doesn't end.
The Manhattan skyline is painfully bright in the late-morning sun as they cross the Whitestone Bridge. She's always liked the Whitestone: on one side, the city lights, close enough to touch, the picturesque Throgs Neck on the other side, ringed with sailboats in the summer, smoky grey water in the winter. She likes to be in between things.
She's spent so many hours in the back of so many town cars just like this one. Crossed so many bridges, carried over the same roads. That's the thing about cars like these, they're indistinguishable and so are her memories sometimes. She blinks and it's fifteen years ago.
They were all but engaged, but Derek still wanted to ask the Captain for her hand; she'd protested but secretly been pleased. They took the train up to Greenwich on a rare evening off, Addison flushed with pleasure to be that couple, the one that hogs a five-seat cluster so they can face each other, knees bumping, sharing the Times crossword, attracting stares, laughing softly at jokes no one else can hear.
The Captain wasn't even there. Yes, he knew they were coming, but he'd been called into work, Bizzy told them. "He's a professor," Addison hissed under her breath, anger a pale cover for the hurt, and her mother turned a cold smile on her. "Mumbling is uncouth, dear."
Bizzy disappeared into the study with Susan directly after dinner (plans for the City Ballet gala, they'd said at the time, but Addison snorts now at the memory, at her own childish stupidity).
"Addie, maybe we should go," Derek whispered as Bizzy closed the study door smartly behind her. She ignored him. "Addie, maybe you should slow down," Derek whispered as they perched on stiff chairs in the library, Addison taking welcome gulps of her fourth drink. She ignored him. "Addie, I don't think he's coming back tonight," Derek said finally. It was nearly ten o'clock. "We have early rounds." He folded and refolded a train schedule in his hand like origami, the bright red taunting her. Addison took a defiant swallow of gin, tears threatening. "We can try to come back next week," he said, his tone placating, both of them knowing they won't.
Bizzy sent them home in a town car. "I had no idea you were still here," she said coolly. "Really, Addison, one doesn't go to the station at this hour."
Addison had stared out the window as the estate disappeared behind her, not uttering a sound until they were speeding down the frosty Merritt Parkway. And then she'd sobbed in Derek's arms. He held her, shushed her quietly, one nervous eye on the uniformed driver. Derek was uncomfortable with a stranger present, with feeling his detached pity. But Addison had been riding in chauffered cars since before she could walk. She'd long ago learned the art of pretending no one else could see her. "Addie, don't cry." His words were partially muffled by her hair. "Your parents, they're just, you know, it's just how they are."
"I wanted them to be happy for me!" she'd cried.
"They are. They will be, in their way. Come on, Addie. Don't cry." He'd said all the right things, stroked her hair, let her cry herself out against him and by the time they approached the Triboro Bridge, she'd calmed down and slumped quietly on her own side of the car. Derek played with the fingers of her left hand as she stared out the window, her own sad eyes looking back at her from the night-mirrored glass.
Now, in the bright morning sun, she can't see her reflection in the window. It's just squat row houses and grimy billboards offering things she doesn't want. When the car pulls away without her, it's freezing at curbside, overheated as she's escorted through check-in. She flashes identification, confirms that she's traveling alone.
In some ways, she's always traveled alone.
But even with the intrusion of security, forced to surrender her heels, she's always rather liked airports: the controlled chaos, the way they are somewhere in between departure and arrival without really being anywhere at all. She appreciates the sleek anonymity of the first class lounge. A few yards away, there's a dark-haired child disappearing into an oversized club chair, murmuring softly to an adult version of herself. Addison studies her, swallows a dull ache with her champagne. She eyes the bones in her left hand, watches them move as she lifts and lowers the flute. Thinks of Sam's hands, the same size as her own but somehow capable of surrounding hers completely. She reminds herself she is somewhere.
Ensconsed in one more soft leather seat, sun streaming in the jet's windows, she adjusts her sunglasses. Sips another champagne, knowing she'll metabolize it fast on the plane. New York shrinks below her, the tiny identical dollhouses of the suburbs, the sprawl of the Hamptons forking under the clouds. She's always thought of flying into New York as coming home, not even minding circling the city in a holding pattern, silver spires beneath her, always letting out a breath of relief as the jet skidded onto the coastal runways. Now she's leaving.
"Do you need anything?" the pretty flight attendant asks.
Yes. A lot of things.
She accepts more champagne instead.
The pilot welcomes them to Los Angeles. "And if this is your final destination, welcome home." His accent is faintly southern, artifically jovial. Addison wonders, not for the first time, exactly where her own final destination is. She's lived in California for nearly three years. As the wheels of the jet touch down, she thinks she is home, maybe. She could be. She has a house, and it's nothing like her parents' -- no, the Captain's, she correct herself -- drafty estate. She has a view of the ocean. She has a cat who curls on her sofa and waits for her to come home.
She has Sam.
Sam, who flew across the country even when she told him she told him he didn't need to. He followed her. He broke her down. He wants to put her back together.
She's thinking of the breadth of his shoulders, the side of his neck where she likes to tuck her head, the way he looks at her face like there's always something new, and she pulls her sunglasses off as she strides through the terminal. Without them, it's bright, it's sun-dappled marble and neon. There are palm trees outside the windows. It doesn't hurt her eyes.
She thinks maybe Sam was right. That she is ready. They took a step forward; now they can travel together in sync, into the rest of their lives. Maybe they don't need to take two steps back.
"Sam!"
Expecting only a driver, she's shocked to see him standing at arrivals, compact and handsome, a smile of recognition flashing white.
She steps into his arms. "I didn't know you were coming," she says, and then they're that couple, kissing at arrivals, catching stares, her arms twined around his neck, his hand sneaking low on her hip. But then he pulls back to look at her, grasps her forearms, his dark eyes searching but unreadable.
"We need to talk," he says, and she longs for the dim comfort of her sunglasses again.
("Hey Rabbit," by Fionn Regan.)