A SMALL WATERCOLOR painting hung over the fireplace.
When Liz had lived in the rambling old house, one of her sketches had hung in that spot. With her eyes squinted half-closed against the late afternoon sun, Liz could almost believe that the watercolor was one of hers.
She leaned her head against the arm of the couch, where the velvet had long since been worn smooth.
Amanda’s golden retriever, Bristol, bumped his head against her leg, trying to get her attention, and she scratched his ears idly.
She had visited the house a year before. At the time, she had been living with Mark in San Francisco. “You’re trying to live in the past,” Mark had claimed when she had left to visit the old house. “You’ll just make yourself unhappy. You can’t go back.” Lying on the couch with the afternoon sunlight shining on her face, Liz knew that Mark had been wrong. She was happy in her past. She was worried about her future.
Mark still lived in San Francisco, but Liz had moved on.
For the past year, she had lived in Los Angeles. Now she was taking a job in New York, moving far away and leaving her family and friends behind.
Bristol bumped his head against Liz’s leg again, and she resumed scratching his ears. “What a pair,” Amanda said as she stepped into the room. The older woman set a teapot and mugs on the coffee table and sat cross-legged on the floor beside the dog. Despite her gray hair, Amanda was as casual in manner as the art students who lived in her house, “You always were that dog’s favorite.”
Bristol lifted his head. With an apologetic air, he moved away from Liz, stretched, and paced to the front door. Liz frowned and sat up on the couch. “I wonder what’s up,” she said.
“That must be Elsa,” Amanda said as she poured the tea. “She lives in your old room now.”
When Liz opened the door for the dog, he pushed past her. Liz stood in the doorway, watching the golden retriever frolic around and around a girl of about eighteen. The girl was laughing and whirling as if trying to keep her face to the dog. A bright flower was stuck in the braid of her long brown hair. Under her arm, she carried a sketch pad and several slim art books.
Liz watched, remembering when Bristol had greeted her after a long day, when she had carried a sketch pad under her arm and walked home from the bus stop with a flower in her hair.
“Elsa painted the watercolor over the fireplace,” Amanda said from behind Liz. “She’s quite good. She’s working under Professor Whittier.”
“Nothing but the best for him,” Liz said, her eyes still on the girl and the dog. Whittier had been Liz’s professor.
Liz stepped back from the door when the girl turned toward the house. Footsteps pounded up the wooden stairs and the girl and dog burst into the room. “Hey, Amanda,” Elsa began. “I won’t be here for dinner.”
“Slow down, kid.” Amanda smiled at the girl as indulgently as she used to smile at Liz. “Say hello to Liz Berke.”
“Pleased to meet you,” Elsa’s voice was low, as if she were not quite certain she wanted to be heard. “Professor Whittier has one of your drawings hanging in his office. It’s very good.” When she hesitated, Liz was painfully aware that Elsa did not know what to say and she remembered how she had felt awkward when she had met Whittier’s old students, people he spoke of with respect and affection. Elsa shifted her sketchbook from one arm to the other and looked at Amanda as if for release. “I’m going out to a lecture with some friends so I won’t be around for dinner, Amanda.”
As Elsa hurried from the room with Bristol close behind her, Liz felt a twinge of something like regret. “Is this her first year?” she asked.
Amanda pushed a cup of tea toward Liz and nodded.
“That’s right. Why?”
“I don’t know. When I first saw her, she reminded me of someone.” Liz shrugged.
“Your lost youth, perhaps?” Amanda grinned.
“I don’t know,” Liz repeated, frowning. “I would have liked to talk to her, though.”
Amanda laughed. “I think you overwhelmed her. All of Professor Whittier’s students are dancing in your shadow, you know. You’re a tough act to follow.”
“Nobody says they have to follow.” Liz’s voice was resentful. She sat back down on the couch and sipped her tea, trying not to wish that the golden retriever’s head still rested in her lap so that she could scratch the dog’s ears.
Liz spent the evening with Amanda, reminiscing about the years that she had lived in the house. “It was good that you moved on, you know,” Amanda said. “I remember that you almost came back here a year after you left.”
“I was going to take a job as Whittier’s assistant,” Liz recalled. “I don’t know why I didn’t. Good pay, interesting work, a chance to come back…”
Amanda shook her head in quick denial. “I told you not to take it and for once you listened. You can’t come back. There’s no place for you here anymore.” Though Amanda’s voice was warm with affection, the words left Liz with a cold feeling: no place for her anymore.
The feeling lingered after Amanda bade her good-night and headed upstairs to the attic bedroom. In the many shadowed hallway, Liz paused at the door to the guest bedroom listening to Amanda’s footsteps ascend the stairs.
Though the hour was past one, Elsa had not yet come home. Liz turned from the guest room and pushed open the door to her old room.
A bouquet of daisies, backlit by moonlight, stood on the windowsill; Liz had always had flowers in her room. The desk was littered with sketches, books, designs. An easy chair—the same easy chair that she had used or else one just as misshapen—stood by the open window, an Indian muslin bedspread flung over it to hide the rips in its upholstery.
Through the open window and across the quiet yard, Liz heard someone whistling a fragment of song—just as she had whistled to keep back the darkness on her way home from coffeehouses, parties, late nights in the studio.
Liz heard a footstep on the driveway and she fled to the guest room, listening in the darkness to the sound of Elsa’s key in the lock and chiding herself for invading the student’s privacy.
Liz woke early the next morning. The sunlight filtered through the leaves of the tree outside the window and created shifting patterns on the ceiling. The sunlight had made shifting patterns on the ceiling of the adjacent room when she had been a student. Liz heard the creak of bedsprings in the room next door, the sound of the closet door opening. She heard footsteps on the stairs but she lay in bed, watching the light dance as the wind moved the leaves, until she heard the front door open and close. She waited until the sound of footsteps on the gravel drive had faded in the distance before she got up and joined Amanda in the kitchen for breakfast.
After breakfast, she caught the same bus she had taken each day as a student. On the bus and on the walk through the campus to Professor Whittier’s office, memories plagued her. Not good memories; not bad memories; just memories; I dropped my portfolio in front of this door when I was hurrying to class, I got caught in the rain and took shelter in this building, I used that fountain to fill an old jam jar with water for a bouquet of flowers, I stood right here the first time I went to see Professor Whittier, a sketch of mine hung on the wall just around this corner.
Just around the corner, a sketch hung on the wall. Liz stopped. She recognized the woman in the portrait as Amanda and she peered at the signature. Elsa Brant. Liz could not put words to the disquieting feeling that touched her—the same uneasiness that had kept her bed that morning.
When she raised her hand to knock on Professor Whittier’s door, she could not suppress the thought: I used to do this every day. And she could not avoid the thought that followed: Elsa probably does this every day.
Professor Whittier had not changed in her absence. The glacial old man nodded slowly when she told him about the work she would be doing in New York. They talked about the changes in the school, the growth in her work, and then she could not resist asking about his students.
He shrugged. Through the years, he had remained as slow and unstoppable as a mountain of ice. “All art students are alike: lazy, self-indulgent. That hasn’t changed,” he said. “Only one—the girl who works in your old studio—shows any promise. Her name is Elsa Brant.”
Liz had fixed her gaze on the drawing that hung behind Professor Whittier’s head, a sketch of Bristol that she had completed during her sophomore year. She remembered sitting in the living room on a warm afternoon while the dog slept in a patch of sunshine, trying to catch the smooth grace of the animal in pen and ink. She remembered the moment and clung to it. She was unique. No one else could have caught that moment in just that way.
“Yes,” Liz admitted quietly. “I’ve seen Elsa’s work. She does have promise.”
On her way out, Liz passed by her old studio and paused at the door. Elsa stood with her back to the corridor, facing the open window. The girl’s easel held a self-portrait that was almost complete. In the painting, Elsa wore the same twisted half-smile she had worn when the dog had greeted her in the yard. Liz stepped forward, about to speak to the girl, and as she did so, realized: I always painted with the window open. She turned and fled.
“I thought you were going to stay for a while,” Amanda complained as Liz stowed her suitcase in the trunk of her car. “You said you didn’t plan to start driving to New York for a week or so.”
“I know. I just…” She met Amanda’s gaze. “I don’t belong here anymore.” She hesitated. She had been about to say—“I’ve been replaced”—but she had thought better of it. “You’ve been telling me that for years. I just now realized you were right.”
Amanda looked worried. “Where are you going, then?”
“I’ve already called Mr. Jacobs, the man I worked for in San Jose. I’m going to be taking him to lunch.” She tried to force a light-hearted note into her voice. “Oh, don’t worry about it, Amanda. I’m just too restless to stay in one place just now.” She hugged the older woman good-bye and got into the car. With the engine running, she reached out the car window to squeeze Amanda’s hand. “I’m sorry, Amanda. I just have to …” She hesitated, uncertain of what it was she had to do. “I’ll write you from New York,” she said.
Liz reached the small silk-screening company in San Jose well before lunchtime. She had held her first design job here, drawing logos and designs for T-shirts.
She sat at Mr. Jacobs’s desk in one corner of the workroom while the elderly man finished packing an order of T-shirts. Mr. Jacobs’s pipe lay unattended in an ashtray on one corner of the desk, giving off a scent that touched old memories. Mr. Jacobs stood with his back to her, folding shirts and layering them neatly. She had offered to help, but he had turned her down, saying it was quicker to do it himself. She watched him work—a wiry old man dressed in jeans and a blue workshirt. He had always worn jeans and a blue workshirt. Liz suspected that if she returned in five years he would still wear jeans and a blue workshirt, still have just the same bald spot in his thinning gray hair. Liz tilted her chair back, resting her feet on the oak desk top, and relaxed.
As Mr. Jacobs worked, he complained about his unreliable help—high school students who worked long enough to buy new wheels for their cars, then quit. When the car needed a new paint job, they asked to be rehired.
“I’ll bet you still hire them back, don’t you?” Liz accused, grinning at the old man.
“He sure does.” A woman stepped from Liz’s old office and answered her question. “You’re supposed to be going out to lunch with your friend,” the woman continued. “I said I’d pack those.”
“See what kind of help I have, Liz,” Mr. Jacobs said.
“Libby is always ordering me around, just like you used to.”
Liz put her feet back on the floor and let her chair return to an upright position. Libby wore blue jeans and had long straight hair. When she smiled at Liz, her smile was crooked—a slightly cynical line.
Mr. Jacobs scowled at the younger woman unconvincingly.
“Watch yourself there. You can be replaced you know.”
They went to the dinette a few blocks from the silkscreen company for lunch. Liz was uneasy and distracted.
Feeling awkward, but unable to avoid the question, Liz asked about Libby. “She looks like an interesting person. Is she a good designer?”
Mr. Jacobs nodded. “She sure is. She’s a good kid—I’m fond of her. She reminds me a lot of you when you first started working for me.”
Liz caught a glimpse of her own face in the mirror behind the counter. Her brown hair hung straight to her shoulders and her mouth had a cynical twist. She looked away.
“She’ll be moving on, soon enough, just the way you did,” Mr. Jacobs was saying. “She has to grow up …” Liz tried to listen but she was distracted by her own reflection.
The dinette seemed too crowded and noisy and Mr. Jacobs’s joking words to Libby beat in Liz’s head: “You can be replaced, you know. You can be replaced.”
“How’s that young man of yours?” Mr. Jacobs asked.
The question cut through the noise of her thoughts and the noise of the dinette.
“You mean Mark,” she said. She had not realized how long it had been since she had talked to Mr. Jacobs. “I haven’t seen him for a while. We broke up over a year ago.” She fidgeted with the silverware on the Formica countertop and when she looked up Mr. Jacobs was watching her with concern. “It’s all right,” she said, and her voice seemed too loud, as if she were protesting too much and too soon. “We were just going in different directions, that’s all. If we had both been older and ready to settle down, it might have been different.” The sudden silence in her mind reflected the words as an echo: it might have been different.
From Mr. Jacobs’s office, Liz called Terry, an old friend who lived in San Francisco. She tried to keep her voice light, fighting the panic that rose in her. “Terry, can I come to visit tonight?”
“Sure, I’d be glad to see you before you head east.”
Terry’s voice was calm. She had always served as a balance for Liz, a relaxed and soothing presence. “But I thought you were going to drive east from Santa Cruz.”
“Plans have changed.” Liz could hear the tension in her own voice.
“You’re not chickening out on this job in New York, are you?” Terry asked. “You better not be.”
In the workroom behind her, Liz could hear the rumble of Mr. Jacobs’s voice, then the sound of Libby’s laughter.
She wanted to run away. “Please, Terry, can we talk when I get there. Please …” When Liz hung up, she slipped out the front door without saying good-bye.
At Terry’s apartment, Liz tried to relax. She sat on the couch, staring at the cup of tea that her friend had given her, trying to think of a way to explain why she had been upset by meeting two women with brown hair holding jobs that she once held.
“You aren’t planning on visiting Mark before you go, are you?” Terry asked. Her friend sat in an easy chair across the room, her hands clasped in her lap, her eyes intent on Liz’s face. Liz knew that Terry was worried about her but she could not help imagining another woman sitting on the couch, telling Terry about her problems while Terry listened intently.
“I’d thought of it.” Liz admitted. She had imagined a reconciliation; she had imagined a mature, but tender, final farewell; she had imagined a confrontation with a dim figure—a woman with brown hair and a twisted smile.
“That wouldn’t be a good idea,” Terry said. “You know that.”
“Yeah, I know. I just …” Liz hesitated. The dim image of the woman who followed her had grown clearer in her mind. Liz saw the woman’s face—a younger version of her own. She imagined herself patting the woman on the back and saying: “Good luck. You’ve got a great past ahead of you, kid.” She shook her head. “No,” she said—half to herself, half to Terry. “I guess it wouldn’t be a good idea.”
In honor of Liz’s visit, Terry took the next day off. At Liz’s suggestion, they went to lunch at the cafe that had been her favorite when she had worked in the city. Just as they were leaving the restaurant, they met Dave, the editor of the magazine where Liz had been layout artist.
“Liz! I didn’t even know you were in town.” Dave clapped her on the shoulder. “You have to come to my party tonight. Everyone will be there.” He hesitated, frowning. “Ah … you and Mark are still friends, aren’t you?”
“Of course,” she replied, a little too quickly. “It would be good to see him again.” She managed an unconcerned smile. “What time should we show up?”
When they left the cafe, Terry put her hand on Liz’s arm. “You aren’t fooling me, you know. If you don’t want to see Mark …”
“It’s okay,” Liz insisted. “I do want to go to the party. And I’d like to see Mark again.”
“I hope you want to see him out of spite—that’s a good healthy motive. I hope you want to show him how well you’re doing without him.” Terry was watching Liz’s face.
“I just hope you don’t want to see him for old time’s sake. You can’t go back, you know.”
“I know,” Liz said. “I really do know.”
She realized at the door of Dave’s house in the hills above Oakland that she really had not known—until she saw the lady on Mark’s arm. The lady’s long brown hair was tied up on her head so that wisps of curls floated down around her face. Though she looked a few years younger than Liz, her mouth had a cynical twist. And seeing Mark woke Liz’s old doubts: could they have worked it out? Should they have stayed together?
Dave took their jackets and followed Liz’s gaze to the couple. “That’s Lillian,” he said. “She has your old job.”
“Oh, really?” Liz maintained her calm facade, but when Dave turned away, she spoke to Terry under her breath.
“That’s not all she has.”
“If you want to leave,” Terry began.
Liz shook her head quickly. “It’s okay.” She knew by the way that Terry touched her arm that her friend realized that it was not really okay, but would not blow her cover.
Liz smiled and started across the room toward the couple, stopping on her way to greet old friends from the magazine, to tell people that, yes, she had moved to bigger and better things; yes, the rumors that she was moving to New York were true; no, she had not forgotten them, not at all.
Even as she laughed and chatted, she kept an eye on Mark and Lillian—and noticed when the lady left Mark to join another group of people.
“Well hello, Mark,” Liz said at last. “How’s life treating you?” She hugged him in greeting—they had parted as friends, after all. “You’re looking good.”
“Sounds like things are going well for you,” he said. “From all the rumors that I’ve heard the job in New York will be a step up.”
“It should be a challenge,” she agreed. Across the room, she could see Lillian talking to Dave. “She looks like a really nice lady,” Liz said. Lillian smiled at a remark, and Liz noticed again that her smile had a skewed look.
“She is.” His voice had a guarded tone, and when Liz glanced at him she saw that he was watching Lillian too.
“You don’t remember her, do you?” She looked at him questioningly. “She was one class behind you in art school. Apparently she took a painting class with you.”
Liz studied the woman’s face, but could not remember having seen her before. “No, I don’t remember her.”
“She remembers you. Apparently she admired your work.” He grinned wryly. “One of your many admirers.”
Liz looked away from Lillian, meeting Mark’s gaze. “I’ll be in town tomorrow,” she said. “I don’t leave for a few days. I thought we might get together for lunch. Just to talk.” She knew by Mark’s expression that the question had been a mistake.”
“I’d rather not,” he said. “Lillian and I … I think she feels threatened, seeing you here. You fit back in a little too well.”
“I don’t want to get back together or anything. I’m no threat. I just thought … we’re still friends and …” She stopped, feeling she was making a fool of herself. “We spent a lot of time together and I still care what you’re doing …”
“You still haven’t learned to let go of the past, have you?” His voice held a slight edge. “You still hang on to it.”
“And you don’t?” She realized as soon as she spoke that she could not explain what she meant. She could not explain that Lillian’s twisted smile was just like Libby’s, like Elsa’s, like her own.
“I have let go,” he said, and she did not know how to refute it.
When Terry hailed her from across the room, Liz turned away with relief to join her friend by the fireplace. Later in the evening, she started to step out on the wooden deck that overlooked the ravine behind Dave’s house, and stopped with her hand on the glass door.
Mark and Lillian stood on the deck, silhouetted by moonlight. Mark’s hand rested on Lillian’s shoulders and as Liz watched, he lifted one hand to touch her cheek. In her mind, Liz could hear him saying: You’re really very special to me, you know that?
Liz felt as if she were watching a replay of her own courtship. In the darkness beyond the figures, she imagined a long line of faces, each one framed by brown hair, each wearing a twisted smile. Behind her, she could hear music from the party; on an old album, Crosby, Stills, Nash, and Young sang: “And it seems like I’ve been here before …”
She ran away, knowing that she was running away. She persuaded Terry to leave the party. She insisted on leaving for New York the next day. Terry did not question Liz’s sudden panic and Liz knew that her friend interpreted her need to be gone as stemming from a fear that she might be trapped into staying. Liz did not tell her otherwise.
As Liz drove cross-country, speeding along midwestern highways where every town looked the same, she admitted her cowardice to herself. But she kept her foot pressed to the gas pedal, staring at the road until her eyes ached and gripping the wheel to keep her hands from shaking. At a McDonald’s, she ate a hamburger and gulped coffee that scorched her throat on the way down and burned in her stomach afterward. She spent one night in a roadside motel, sleeping fitfully and waking with the sensation that she was still moving, clutching the wheel and pushing down on the gas pedal. She was leaving them all behind.
A knot of resentment remained with her: Why did they follow her? Why was she chosen to be the leader, the Pied Piper with a pack of children dancing in her shadow?
She reached New York and began work, spending the first day setting up her office so that it suited her. The secretary for the art department said that Beth, the artist who had quit, would stop by and pick up the sketches that she had left behind.
Liz settled down to work at her new desk, trying to ignore the constant anger that knotted her stomach. When the door to her office opened, she looked up. The older woman who stepped inside wore her brown hair pinned back. Her mouth was twisted in an ironical grin.
“Hello,” she said. “I’m Beth.”