“Don’t ever change,” he told me. “I love you just the way you are.”
“I’ll be thinking of you tonight in my bed,” I told him.
That part was true.
Did I actually believe Forrest and I would become lovers that summer?
I was young, but I wasn’t crazy. If the man who was my father’s oldest and best friend ever actually did any of the things I dreamed up in the scenes I played out in my brain and wrote down in my journal, I wouldn’t know what to do. If he kissed me, I doubt I could kiss him back.
Part of the appeal of Forrest Emerson, to my almost-fifteen-year-old self, rested with the knowledge that mine was an unattainable fantasy.Forrest could take up residence in my brain—and he had—without any risk of embarrassment or failure. Forrest Emerson, as I brought him to life in the pages of my beautiful leatherbound journal that summer, was like a character I dreamed up in the hope that he’d rescue me from my profound loneliness. Constructing romantic scenes between the two of us—Forrest and me—felt dangerous and safe at the same time. So long as the stories just happened on the page—like the stories I read in my Stephen King novels—nobody could ever get hurt.
23
Breakfast, Solo
The next morning I came downstairs for my typical breakfast with Forrest.
For the first time since I’d been at Wonderland, he wasn’t there. Regina’s typewritten instructions were waiting for me as expected, indicating that despite being under the weather earlier, she’d still gotten up in the night as usual. This morning’s note included a reminder about a birthday party Jilly and Hayward had been invited to.Select a present from the Birthday Present Cupboard,she’d written. (Who else had a special cupboard designated for birthday presents?)Price range: $10–15.
There was a second note on the counter for me. This one was in Forrest’s handwriting.
Went for a Bik Ride. I dee frosted a bagle for u.
I was accustomed to his terrible spelling, but the disappointment I felt in reading his words caught me off guard.
One nice thing: A small bunch of flowers lay on the napkin at my place—marigolds from the pot by the door. Nobody had ever given me flowers before.
When Forrest finally came home after his training session that afternoon, he looked different. Knowing the look of him as well as I did and the way he acted—and maintaining the consuming interest I had in every aspect of his life—I tried to figure out what it was that had changed.
The only comparison that came to mind was to my father during the one period in which he’d told us he’d stopped drinking. A couple of weeks after that, he had entered our apartment through the back stairs—the place we set the garbage—and set a box there that he covered up with an old comforter. You didn’t have to move the comforter to know there was a case of vodka underneath. You didn’t even need to smell it on his breath. He had this look on his face. You knew he’d gone off the wagon.
That was Forrest when he came back from what he told us was his five-hour bike ride.
He asked me if I’d slept well the night before—the kind of question people ask when they just feel a need to ask you a question. He wanted to know if I’d found the bagel he’d left out for me.
“The Van Burens are throwing a party this weekend, if I’m not mistaken,” he said. “Should be a blast.”
Parties at the club were never a blast. Forrest knew this. Nothing he was saying sounded like his real self.
“Regina did my toenails,” I told him. I pointed to my foot, still in sandals. It turned out she’d been right. The opalescent pearl she’d picked out had been a good choice.
“That’s great,” he said. But he didn’t look down.
The next morning he was gone again when I got up. Another note was waiting for me. Briefer this time.
Gon 4 bike ride. Help self to serial.(His spelling.)
The surprise was seeing Regina at the counter, up even before I was this time—Regina, who seldom got out of bed before ten, and sometimes not until noon. She was wearing her bathrobe, her hair a tangle. She looked as though she hadn’t slept. For once she had not typed up any lists for us.
“So it’s started,” she said.
24
Like a Virgin
Forrest and Regina had taken the kids to see a movie in Bangor, with a stop to pick up an Uncle Sam costume for Forrest. Prudence had the day off. I was alone at Wonderland. Other than running a load of laundry, I had nothing to do.
I fixed myself a peanut butter sandwich. (Peanut butter—not on my approved foods list. I told myself I’d make it up by not eating dinner.)
