The Brightest Star in a Constellati... - Chapter 44: Chapter 44

☽ Peter ☽
The hotel's computer is stuck in a cycle of updating on a bright navy blue screen with a percentage that won't budge past eighty-nine, so I take my break early.
Outside the lobby doorway, Elaine is getting ready to leave. Her backpack is stuffed full; the straps are bottle green, like the shell of a turtle. She ambushes Evan before he can move away, and her arms wrap around him.
I approach like a tentative whisper. I don't wish to disturb them, but Elaine notices me regardless. She says, "Do you want a hug, too?"
I tell her yes, and at that moment, she reminds me of Evan.
Once she's pulled back, she tells the two of us, "I'll be back to sing more songs. Promise."
Around the curb of Daybreak street, Elaine's father's car comes into view. As she walks towards it, she shoves Evan and laughs. I watch her get into the passenger seat, and I allow myself a reserved smile.
Elaine's father gets out of the car. He nods once at Evan, and I look at them. Based on Evan's description of Randall, I expected he would have nothing in common with him. But it's in the way Evan moves; angling his feet in the same stance as Randall. And like Randall, Evan hangs on to the little time he has left with Elaine before they're gone again.
I think when someone leaves like that; it doesn't matter how much advance notice is given. Until I see Evan's face—the way he tries to form a smile, but he drops it when it doesn't work—I don't realize what it must feel like to be left with nothing but memories. He is left with the minuscule fragments and mannerisms that he's taken from Randall without noticing. Just like I am an amalgamation of people I have met, people who have left, Evan has these same traces. He listens to the music his sister gave to him. He asks questions like she does.
He is not a puzzle with a piece missing.
We are just two entities, with iron in his blood—the iron that stars are made of. With cells that replenish on an average of seven years, and skin that regenerates approximately once a month, and ninety-eight percent of atoms that are replaced every year.
Before Randall leaves, he says, "Evan, we should talk."
"I'm fine," Evan assures him. "Really. You should go. I don't want you to miss the boat."
"You're a good kid. Do you know that? You can call me if you want to talk. Anytime."
Like it doesn't matter, Evan scoffs. And the car peels away. He stands there, in front of me, and I realize I don't know what to do. Nobody has left my life like this—like without waiting to look back. I wonder if this is why Evan is so afraid to speak; it's like a trust fall in gym class. It's like falling backwards and having no idea of where I'm going to land.
"So," Evan says, slipping his hands into his pockets, "do you want to go get coffee? I owe you one."
I wonder if he's afraid of falling. "I was only partly joking about that."
I direct him to my car, and he offers to drive. On the way, he says, "You didn't have to do that for my application, you know."
He glances at me, and the road charges past beyond my nose. Wet grass smudges into the black asphalt of the road, and the sky is muted. The sun dissolves through the heavy sky like a worn, knitted coat, with the clouds as sleeves and the warm, curved edge of the sun's neckline wearing it.
"I know, and please don't say you wouldn't have gotten accepted, otherwise. You know that's not true. The portfolio was great without that one drawing. It got sent back because it was an extra—and maybe because they wanted you to have it back."
"Right," Evan says, gingerly. He doesn't speak further until he's turned into Vanier Avenue, a section of straight roads connected by squares of land filled with trees and shrubbery. Tinged by ice, the greenery overtakes the space and spills out onto the road, as if it cannot be contained within its area any longer. "Elaine—when she was a kid—had something like that happen to her. She used to write those letters to Santa, you know? With a postal code that doesn't exist, so that when you get old enough, you realize they didn't actually get anywhere. But the workers read them. Every single one. She always got a personalized letter back. She sent a page ripped right out of her colouring book once, and the letter thanked her for it."
I ask, "Are you deflecting?" He dodges the conversation, like he'd much rather keep the subject revolving around what he deems acceptable to talk about.
I know why he does it, but talking in circles is getting us nowhere. There's an idiom for this, and though there is a similar English equivalent for it, it's slightly different. Tourner autour du pot. It means to avoid being straightforward, instead of directly addressing the issue. Thus, Evan picks topics that are close, but he never quite gets close enough for it to hurt him.
"No." He laughs and takes a left turn into the drive-thru. "I'm saying sometimes when it gets dark and I think too much, I wonder about who is on the other end of those letters. Who saw my portfolio and hung Elaine's crayon drawing—that didn't stay within the lines—on their fridge for a while. Because it means I was in their lives. Temporarily. And I will never get to know whose life it was."
He orders two coffees; he takes it black, and mine with sugar and milk. A server hands it to him at the window. He passes me my double-double, and I have to clasp the paper sleeve in my hands to keep it from burning me.
"Are you thinking about leaving again?" I say. "This whole college thing—are you thinking about how you're going to do it?"
I can barely make myself say it—every word that comes out of my mouth has a weight. These words—as simple as they seem—are so heavy that it hurts to breathe. If he goes, and if he doesn't come back, he knows what it will become. What it could have been if we stayed on opposite sides of a phone screen. He doesn't tell me this will be temporary, too.
He doesn't lie.
Lying is easier when I know I'm going to get in trouble for telling the truth.
"Just thinking," Evan says. "I'll figure it out. I've done that with everything else so far, and that's what I'll keep doing."
When he doesn't say anything further, I direct him to a parking spot.
"Can I tell you something?" he asks.
I don't push it. I don't tell him not to ask permission, because I don't mind it when he does. Lately, I've been wondering why I get so scared to speak every time he lets me into the room of his hotel.
"I feel like I've got this fear of... it's not even commitment, but I don't know what it is. Like with soccer. Like with Claire. Like I stay too long."
Through the window of the passenger seat, I can see that the sun has nearly set. In the distance, a seagull circles the parking lot. It's likely to be a herring gull, scavenging for food before it returns to its home. It cuts across the sky, wings flapping as it dives towards the power lines.
"All of this stuff..." I trail off. "About your mother..."
He sips his drink. "You can talk about it."
"Can I? We won't keep skirting around the subject?" This is the English equivalent of the idiom. It's not exactly avoiding, as he turns around it, like a planet's slow rotation. He inches gradually closer, until he'll be wrapped into the gravitational pull of the sun, then surrender to it.
He says, "I'm still angry about it, but it's not... I don't know. I thought it would be so simple to forget about Carolyn, and I'd never have to think about her, ever again. She'd be out of my life. But it's not—it's nothing like that. There's this constant voice in my head, reminding me I can't ever get rid of her. I can stop going home. I can stop talking to her—talking about her. But I look for her when I'm outside. I look for her like she's waiting around every corner."
The server who took our orders a short while ago is standing outside, leaning against the wall. Evan's eyes scan her, and his lips draw into a firm line. "I look for her like she's everyone. Like anyone could turn into her. It's fucking terrible," he finishes.
I tense; knowing exactly what he means. I consider saying that my life consists of waiting to act. That when I enter that mode—when I can force myself to power through—I get consumed by it. And it isn't everyone, but everything. It's participating in class, even when I know the answer. It's opening the door to my room, even when I know it's only my family in the living room. I keep scanning the surroundings, waiting to mess up.
But this isn't about me, so I course-correct by saying, "I didn't know it was that bad. It's been like this since you came to the hotel?"
"Sort of." He shrugs. "I didn't really think about it yesterday. It's only when I'm out, like right now. And then I get caught up in it, and I can't get out. I guess that probably doesn't make sense."
"No, it does," I say. "Don't make it sound like it isn't important. Because it is. I don't think it'll stop, either, but maybe with some time... that's just what I've been told about my nervousness, I guess. I'm not sure I believe it, though—that hurting could get more bearable."
He tips back the remainder of his drink, and my train of thought breaks temporarily while he picks at the rim. I pause, and it extends like a bubble about to explode.
"You know, I don't think you do it on purpose. That it's a reason and not an excuse."
Evan looks at me, setting his hand against the clutch. "Do what?"
"Bringing up your mother. Like she's the reason behind everything. It explains some of it, sure—but there's a percentage that's your..."
He guesses, "My fault."
"I didn't say that," I correct softly. "Your own doing. A product of who you have to be. Of course, you stay too long. When has leaving ever been an option, and not just an idyllic plan?"
The sky deepens in shade, extinguishing the light. The moon that rises is in a waning crescent, and barely visible over the shadowy clouds.
"How many times do I need to have the same dream before it becomes real?" he asks as the stars shimmer into view. "If I was still lying, this would be easier. I could tell you I had never considered just leaving—like, really leaving. Packing a bag and walking, as far as I could get. But with the count down—I get time to make sure I won't give up my chance. It wasn't like I had a choice before. I always figured Carolyn would kick me out."
I sigh, and he says, "What?"
"What a mess."
As the darkness takes over, we stare at the sky. I lift my hand and point to a cluster of stars to his left—a steady, white light like a halo.
"That's Ursa Minor," I say.
He follows my line of sight. "Where?"
I chuckle lightly and move the tip of my finger so that it points at Polaris. I look at him sidelong. His eyes search the sky as if trying to find it.
Evan turns his hand to mine and laces his fingers between them. It's a gentle, hesitant movement, and I don't move for fear of making him pull back.
Softly, I say, "That's Polaris. The one sailors use for navigation."
Another pause. My heartbeat thuds in my ears. I lower the hand in the air and continue, "Did you know that there's a word for the brightest star in a constellation? Lucida. It's Latin, like for lucid or clear. It makes it easier to see without a telescope. Like how Spica—the binary star—is the brightest star in Virgo. It was the first fact I posted about."
"You've been doing that for a while?"
"The blog?" I ask. "Yeah, since about ninth grade."
He shakes his head. "Looking at the constellations, I mean."
I suppose the thought of turning towards the stars hasn't left. I've done it countless times before, but it's different tonight. Especially when this is the sky under which Evan McKenna's hand isn't letting go of mine.
"I have. There's stability in it. It's the same sky, after all. But we're all looking at it from different angles."
It feels new to look at the stars when I'm not focused on reaching them, like I did when I was a kid. I fell in love with the stars, knowing the odds were stacked against me. Getting to the sky required so many things, and the reality that I have to settle for another career has long ago sunk in.
Maybe that's what this day feels like.
I think I should let go, but I don't know why.