He nodded. “That sounds like a good reason to try something else.”
It did. To me too.
“You know, they have a great program at Stanford. I mean I don’t know that much about these things, but I hear it’s arguably the best documentary film program in the country. I’m not saying that for me,” he added quickly. “I’m just saying.”
I smiled at him. “Well, I appreciate you . . . saying.”
We were both quiet. I wanted him to say something else. Anything else. That was all I wanted.
But maybe it was my turn. “Why don’t I call you when I get out there?” I said. “Maybe you could come and visit.”
“Or we could meet in the middle,” he said. “And I’m not trying to be all symbolic. Big Sur is in the middle, and Monterey. It’s incredible there. And there’s this great restaurant right on the water near Carmel. It’s in this old cabin. Tiny place, like six tables total. A buddy of mine is the chef there. He’s an incredible chef, actually. Not as incredible as me, but, you know . . .” He smiled. “I may even have to have an actual meal.”
“Then I’m in,” I said, and I was. It was incredible there—that whole area along the California coast. I had been there as a little girl, and I liked the idea of going back. I liked the idea of all of it, really: the idea of driving up the coast, and having something I was excited about checking out, someone I was excited to see. And maybe something I was excited about getting back to also.
“So then I’ll call you, I guess, ” I said. “You’re in my phone.” I held it up for him to see.
“I’m in your phone,” he said.
I looked down, feeling shy all over again
. If this were the right thing to be doing, shouldn’t I not have felt so shy? Shouldn’t it just have felt familiar already? Easy? I wasn’t sure. I wasn’t sure this wasn’t in fact the beginning of the very best part. And still, back at the house people would be swarming around—my mom, my father, Josh eventually. There would be a lot of explaining to do, a lot of time to feel out what would happen next. It would, in the end, be a little while before I could make that call to Berringer. But before I left him now, I took a long look at his face to remind myself that I wanted to make it. I really did want to.
Berringer reached out and touched my ear, pulling my hair behind it gently. “You’ve got such a nice face,” he said.
I smiled. I smiled, and then looked down, mostly because I was just about to tell him the same thing.
Which seemed like a good place to start.
When I began thinking about Josh’s wedding toast—when I began doing all the research about different wedding customs for it—I stumbled on all this information about the history of toasts itself. It turns out that there was an ancient French custom of putting a scorched piece of bread in the bottom of wineglasses—back when wine still needed to be decanted because of all the heavy sediments. The toast would absorb all that residue. It would absorb what was misplaced so you could enjoy what it was you were meant to enjoy. The French called this process “toasted.” That was where the word came from.
And while I was driving all over my hometown late in the night after the wedding that never happened, after the fireworks and the bachelor party and the road trip and the blackout, and my mother’s wet-naps and the pineapple cake and the broken blinker—that small broken directional arrow—and the lost love and the unlived lives, I thought about what I would say in a toast to my brother, if he ever needed me to make one again. And for the first time, in a long while, I had the answer to something. I knew the answer unequivocally.
I’d find my way here—I’d start with what happened here—the Scarsdale Pool. For the second time in the longest and shortest weekend of my life.
When I got there, I saw Josh’s lone car in the parking lot under the three lit parking lot lamps, light-beads falling out of them.
I parked in the spot next to him and peeked into his car—the doors unlocked, the engine still warm. Then I opened the trunk, taking the first-aid kit out of the corner where he always kept it. I held it under my arm, and tried to follow his footsteps to the oval groundside hole we all knew about in the back fence (still there) and over to the hill. The place was now entirely deserted—silent. Even from a distance, I could make out his shadow’s form. I knew where to look.
I walked quickly, deliberately, back to where we were sitting the other night. And there Josh was: right up close, lying on his back, by himself. His suit jacket and keys in a pile beside him. A large blue flashlight.
I stood there above him because I thought, at first, he wasn’t going to say anything.
But he surprised me. “Do you think it’s safe for you to be wandering around closed public spaces like this?” he asked.
I was still standing. “It’s not unsafe,” I said. “Which may be one of the few benefits of coming home again.”
“Not a bad one, I guess,” he said. He sat up, taking a closer look at me, noticing the first-aid kit in my hand. “What happened here?” he said.
“I need you to fix me,” I said. Then I moved his pile of things out of the way and sat down where they’d been, taking my flip-flop off. He reached over and picked my damaged foot up, cradled the heel in his hand.
“What did you step in exactly?” he said.
“Exactly one broken Amstel Light bottle,” I said. “I think it split open inside my foot. I’m sure there are still some slivers in there. Maybe now slivers of the slivers.”
He shone the flashlight on it, pushing on the wound lightly with the tip of his finger.
“It doesn’t look too bad,” he said.