Jayne was smart. She waited until Levi left to pepper me with questions.
“So—Gemma’s friend Livy. I think I met her a long time ago. But you like her? You think it’ll be a good fit?”
I walked to the kitchen and began to pull out butter, sugar, flour, salt, and eggs.
“What are you making?” Jayne asked.
“I have no idea. What sounds good? What do we have?” I pulled out a small bowl and cracked the eggs into it. Whatever I made, it would likely be something that didn’t require separated egg whites.
“Oatmeal cookies?” Jayne suggested. “Do we have oats?”
I checked the cupboard to the side of the stove, retrieved the silo-shaped container of oats, and gave it a good shake. “Sounds like three cups, at least.”
“Want me to mix the dry ingredients?”
“Sure.” The vanilla was near the oats, so I pulled it out as well. Into the bowl with the eggs I added the white sugar, brown sugar, butter, and vanilla. “In answer to your questions,” I said, emphasizing the s in questions, “I met Livy earlier this evening. And yes, I like her, and I’m fairly certain it’ll be a good fit.”
“Wow. You sure do play your cards close to your chest.” Jayne stirred the flour, cinnamon, and rising agents with the whisk attachment belonging to the blender. “Though I shouldn’t be surprised. Heaven help us if you take up poker.”
“You’re not mad?”
“Why would I be mad? The person who makes the yummy food and prevents me from being lost in a pile of clutter is moving out. Mad? No. Never.”
I bumped her hip with my own. “I’m not far. It’s just…something I needed to do.”
“Don’t worry, I get it, I really do. I moved two hours away from my parents at eighteen. I know I’m not family, but staying with me is only a baby step toward independence. I’m not mad because you’re ready for a leap.”
“I think I am.”
“You are. Are we ready to mix? Because I’m dying for one of these cookies.”
“One? I’ve never seen you only eat one.” I straightened. “You’re the Dyson of oatmeal cookies.”
Jayne threw back her head and laughed. “I had that coming to me, didn’t I.”
“You did.”
“I’ll miss you.”
I put my arm around her shoulders. “I know. I’ll miss you too.”
Arin had spoken so much about soup that I figured—as best I could—that he meant we would eat soup. He’d offered to pick me up from work again once my shift was over. That particular Saturday I got off at 1:30.
It made no sense to take my lunch break at 12:30 only to turn around and eat soup at 1:30, so I decided to work through lunch and snack on whole-grain crackers while Zach and William abandoned the shop in search of food.
I began to regret my decision when Arin picked me up.
“You look pretty,” he said. “About ready to go?”
Before I could answer, my stomach made a noise. It was not a pretty noise.
And it was loud enough that William looked up. Or maybe he was already looking, but it was loud either way. “Yes,” I said, folding my arms in front of my torso as if to muffle any further communication from that region.
I followed Arin outside. To my surprise, we stopped in front of a car.
“Are we driving?” I asked, eying the vehicle. I didn’t know how I felt about driving with Arin.
“Yeah—the museum’s a fair walk from here, and it’s looks like it’s gonna downpour at some point today. You okay?”
“Um…” My stomach gurgled in a definite no vote. “It’s fine. It does look like rain, doesn’t it.” Of course, this was western Oregon. It looked like rain most of the time, most of the year.
Arin opened the car door for me, and I climbed in. The first thing I noticed was the peeling duct tape on the dash. What had I gotten myself into? I felt my hands start to shake. I could only hope Arin was a good driver.
Arin slung himself into the driver’s seat and started the car. My right hand grasped the armrest as the car came to life, rumbling and making noises I didn’t think cars could make.
At every stop, I pressed my foot down on an imaginary brake. At every lane change, I looked over my shoulder to check blind spots. By the time Arin parked outside of the stately museum, I had the urge to launch myself from the car, ground myself in the grass, and weave its blades between my fingers. I resisted, partly because it would have been weird and partly because the ground was wet and would have marked my trousers.
There were banners outside advertising the special exhibit within. Printed on them was a can of soup. Several cans of soup, actually. I began to get a bad feeling.
My stomach agreed.
I wished I’d stashed some crackers in my purse. Arin bought the tickets for the exhibit, and we walked upstairs. “I love Warhol’s style—so graphic, so there. No apologies, you know? More diverse than people give him credit for. He’s got a portrait of Sarah Bernhardt that’s gorgeous—makes you want to forget all about Marilyn, if that were possible.”
Once we reached the exhibit, my first glance changed everything. My noisy, empty stomach receded into the background. The colors were incredible. I struggled to describe them in my head. Saturated was the only word that came close. They were so bright, so vivid, just looking at them warmed my soul.
Arin and I walked slowly through the gallery, studying each piece. We saw the Sarah Bernhardt and the wall of Marilyn Monroe, as well as Elizabeth Taylor, Ingrid Bergman, and Che Guevara. I knew who they were because of the little placards.
I loved the giant pictures of shoes and the way they sparkled. I told Arin so.
“Diamond dust,” he said. “Not bad, huh?’
In another room we saw the 1979 BMW M1 Warhol had painted. “He meant it to look like speed,” Arin explained. “Speed as in rapidity, not the drug. A car painted to look like an amphetamine wouldn’t be that interesting.”
“I like the yellow.” I tilted my head as I studied it, throwing a glance at Arin.
He couldn’t understand how yellow had been such a taboo color to wear back home, only worn on occasion by very young girls with mothers who didn’t realize how badly it could stain. Here in Portland, with the English and their Shout sprays and Biz and Tide pens and washing machines that didn’t rely on generators or car batteries, here I was free to love yellow. I loved the sunshine of it. Loved the brightness, the way it attracted attention without me worrying what the neighbors or the bishop thought.
How nice it was never to worry anymore about what the bishop thought!
The sense of relief I felt at that moment overwhelmed me. I felt tears, once so unfamiliar and now so frequent, prick at the corner of my eyes.
I felt Arin’s hand on my back. “What’s the matter?” he asked.
I shook my head. There was truly no way he would understand.
The last room to see made everything clear. Soup. As far as the eye could see.
My stomach rumbled again as if to greet the cans and cans of Campbell’s soup. I wondered if there were any cans of Progresso when Warhol was working.
If there were, they didn’t make it into his art.
We walked around the room, studying the pictures.
When we were near the door, my stomach made noise again. This time, it’s wasn’t a rumble or a gurgle. It was a roar.
Arin looked at me. “Are you hungry?”
I couldn’t look at him. I could only nod.
He put his arm around my shoulders. “Well, let’s get you something to eat.”
I waved goodbye to Arin as he dropped me off at the apartment. Not seeing anybody inside, I put my coat and purse away and walked down the hallway to my room.
My brother’s voice came from nowhere. “Oh, it’s you.”
I shrieked and jumped, running into the wall in the process.
“Whoa, sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you. I thought you were Jayne when you walked in.”
“Where…” my eyes followed the sound of his voice. He was flat on the kitchen floor, head beneath the sink. I put my hands on my hips. “What exactly are you doing?”
“Garbage disposal’s on the fritz.”
“Where’s Jayne?”
“Got a call—there’s some huge breaking story. I offered to stay and fix the garbage disposal.”
I walked over to inspect the sink. “What did she do to it?”
“Sometimes these things just break.”
I was sure they sometimes did, but Jayne had a habit of sticking things she probably shouldn’t down the disposal, like chicken bones and avocado pits. Not that I was well acquainted with the machine—I’d spent my entire life without one. Not even my Mennonite grandmother had one. But having been raised on a farm, I was familiar with machinery that ground things up and the kinds of things that made them unhappy. Like avocado pits.
“Glad I got to see you today. Saved me a phone call.” Levi made a couple twists with his wrench. “Mind turning on the water?”
I lifted the faucet handle. Levi flipped the disposal’s switch. The blades roared to life, rattling the countertop.
He switched it off. “Sounds about right. Enough about that.” He sat up, resting his hands on his hips. “How are you?”
I took a seat on one of the counter stools. “Busy.”
“Just a bit?” Levi looked me over, taking in the circles under my eyes and my badly styled hair. “Maybe a little stressed too?”
“Okay, a lot.” I slumped over the counter.
“Thought so. Just so you know, I’ve been looking at buying a house.”
“Oh?” I knew he’d been renting the last several months.
“One of the ones I’m looking at has a finished apartment in the downstairs. You could have that place to yourself, have lots of workspace, lots of privacy, but Jayne and I would be nearby.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “You and Jayne?”
“The house would be for her and me.”
“Does Jayne know about this?”
“Nope.” Levi’s eyes twinkled. “And don’t you dare let on.”
“Roger that,” I said, repeating one of my new favorite phrases. “Thanks for the offer, but I’ll have to pass. This is something I have to do.”
“Don’t work yourself too hard. Do you think you’d have space in your new place for a quilt frame?”
“Maybe. Maybe it could go under my lofted bed, if we were clever.”
“Would that help with your quilting?”
“Definitely.”
“I’ll see if I can put one together for you then.” He paused. “Are you sure I can’t talk you into the downstairs apartment idea?”
I shook my head. “When you left, you made it work for yourself. I need to do the same thing.”
“When I left, the economy was different.”
“That doesn’t make it less important to me. Richard pays me well at the shop, probably more than I deserve.”
“Well, Kim visited the bookstore the other day—I think you were in class at the time. Said she’s never seen it looking so sparkling clean and well organized.”
I shrugged. “Dusting isn’t something that much interests Zach or William. They weren’t raised to be Amish women.”
“No.” Levi laughed. “Let me know when you decide to do the move. My truck is at your disposal.”
“Yes. I suppose I’ll actually have things to move this time. So…” I shifted on the stool. “How are…they?”
Levi gave a soft smile. “I won’t lie and say they don’t miss you. I think Mom…understands.”
I didn’t ask about my father. I knew he wouldn’t talk to Levi and certainly wouldn’t talk to him about me.
“It’s also too early to say anything, but Amos is seeing a girl.”
My eyes widened. “How do you know?”
“Elam’s a blabbermouth. Having a sibling who’s courting age too is dangerous.”
I laughed. “Did he say who it was?”
“Rumor has it it’s Miriam Beacher’s Ella.”
“Ella? Really?” Ella had been one of my best friends back home. If I were still there, we’d meet in the day, exchange stories, giggle, and plan our futures. Now my future couldn’t be more different than Ella’s. I wrinkled my nose. “I never would have seen Ella with Amos.”
“From the amount of conversation about it, you’re not alone. On another subject, Grandma would love to visit you. All she needs is a word, and she’ll hop in that boat-like Buick of hers and voyage north.”
My throat went dry at the thought. I rose from my spot at the counter and found a glass for myself, filled it with water, and drank. “I don’t know,” I said, swirling the water in the glass. “I really don’t.”
On one hand, I wanted to see her. Especially after the accident, I’d craved the warm arms of my mother, and Grandma would be similar. And yet she still represented my past, despite the fact that she’d left the Amish community to become Mennonite along with my grandfather. She’d always been a part of my Amish life.
I remembered my plans to quilt for additional income. Quilting was part of my past…why did I not struggle with it?
Unlike quilts, Grandma was real. She smelled of cinnamon. She held me as a baby. She was a living, breathing reminder of everything I couldn’t have, everything I’d walked away from.
“I can’t,” I answered at last. Not yet.” A part of me wondered if I ever could.