Autofocus (21 page)

Bennett and I get ready—Treena isn't in her room, so there's no awkward confrontation—and then eat breakfast at the cafeteria on campus, and it's normal. More than normal; it's comfortable. Like last night didn't happen. Like we're starting over. And it feels okay. I mean, minus the vomit-inducing headache.

I pull my phone out to see if there's anything from Treena, but not a word. I'm not sure who should call first. I'm not sure I want to go there yet. A flash passes through my mind, and I open up my phone's notes, remembering that I typed something out yesterday.

“Hey, what's Lichgate? Is it a club or something?” I ask.

“Lichgate? How do you know about it?” he asks, looking surprised.

“Jessica mentioned it. She said my mom loved it there.”

“Huh,” he says, nodding his head. “Let's go to it.”

“What
is
it?” I ask.

“I think you'll like it.” He smiles and leads me to the parking lot. Though we've traveled quite a bit together, it's never been by car, and for some reason I'm comforted by the sight of his tiny old blue Hyundai. It's not fancy; it's just him. When he starts the ignition and turns around to back out of his spot, our hands touch on the armrest. But instead of taking his away, he wraps it around mine. And I happily let him.

After a few minutes of driving, we pull into a church's parking lot. “This is not what I had in mind at all. And I'm pretty sure my mom was Jewish.”

“We're just parking here,” Bennett says, letting go of my hand to get out of the car. I get out, too, and walk over to him. Our hands magnetically find each other again. But this time, instead of just holding on, our fingers lace up together, holding on tighter, more intimately. I inhale, aware of our touch and how my pulse is speeding up. My spirits magically lift, and I feel bright. And this time it's for real, and not an illusion brought on by alcohol.

Next to the church is a wooded area. A forest expands sky-high and we follow a sidewalk toward a small gap between two trees. “I assume you know where we're going, because, to me, it just looks like we're about to get lost in the woods.”

He smiles. “Maybe that was my plan all along.” We walk
a few steps in, following a small dirt path with trees surrounding us. A giant wooden board greets us, welcoming us to Lichgate, and when I open my mouth to ask, once again, what it is, he just raises his eyebrows and pulls me along.

We continue following the wooded path until we're completely hidden from view. And then, a light pokes through and the way opens up to an immense clearing. It's like all of the sunshine has been reserved for this one soft, green lawn. It's large and bright, and just rolling grass and an ancient oak tree in the middle.

“It's beautiful,” I say, gazing up at the old tree that has to be hundreds of years old. It's huge and warped, wrinkles upon wrinkles decorating it. It's impossible to see the entire thing at once; I have to turn my head to view all of the branches reaching high up, and then dropping way down, touching the ground like fingers. Bennett leads me toward the base of the tree and I follow, feeling warm and comfortable. We stand in the shade, and I touch the bark, the leaves.

“
This
is Lichgate?” I ask, once again surprised by something my mother liked. She is full of surprises, it seems. But this—this is something, much like her art, that I appreciate, too.

“It's been here for years,” Bennett explains. “Like, before Florida was really Florida, you know? We learned about it in one of my classes; we were assigned to do an art project on it. A while ago, an FSU environmental studies professor decided to preserve it. She bought the tree and built the
cottage over there.” He points to a small, fairy-tale-looking cottage in the corner that I didn't even notice.

I marvel at the tiny house. “It's so cute.”

“Yeah. She lived there for years, and after she died, a charity was put together to keep it all up. It's really just here, not taken care of by anyone. I love it because no one messes with it. I mean, anyone could come here and totally vandalize the place, but you just know not to. It's like it belongs to everyone. I think it's really cool.”

“It's because it's so pretty,” I say.

“I come here sometimes to do schoolwork. It's quiet.”

“I can't believe my mother used to come here, maybe even painted here.”

“Yeah, it's cool you found that out. I prefer this to country music clubs.” He nods and I agree.

I walk in a circle, taking it all in, and feel my feet against the grass. And the weirdest sensation comes over me. This is it—this is a part of her. She was here. I don't know when, and I don't know why, but I know she stood at least somewhere around here. And I swear, I can almost feel her touching me. I close my eyes and take in the moment. Then take out my camera to capture it all, wondering if she did the same.

“You know, once the story of the tree got out, people wanted to see it. So, I don't know, sometimes learning about something's history is a good thing,” he says, and his words don't lose their meaning on me.

I stare at the branches nearly touching my feet, twisting
along the grassy ground. My hand grazes the rough texture. “Perhaps. Can we see the house?” I ask.

“Yeah, it's open,” he says, and I push myself to walk away from the spot, because really, this entire place is a spot. Her spot. Our spot.

We walk out of the shade and toward the small, fenced-in house.

“This is amazing,” I say as we pass a small garden full of vegetables and brightly colored flowers. Peppers, carrots, peas are all marked in a line.

We get to the gate out front, and Bennett stops.

“Okay, so this is her lichgate, thus the name of the park. Apparently it's, like, a fence that separates a church from a graveyard, so a place in between,” he says, and I think about my in between right now. In between high school and college. In between the before and after of finding out about my mother. The in-between of who I was and who I'm slowly becoming. “She built it so she could go between rest and being alive and living.”

“Kind of nice and creepy,” I say, touching the gate.

“Yep. So we're, I guess, going to be alive when we cross it. Or dead. I'm not sure which way is which.”

I think of my mother, and shake my head. She never really had a chance for an in-between. She moved so quickly from high school to college to me to death. There was no time for transition for her, and not for the first time I wonder what she could have become.

The house is an old cottage, with a stone foundation on the bottom, wooden walls, shuttered windows, and even a chimney atop it.

“Are you sure we can go in?” I ask when we approach the old front door.

“Yep, it's open for tours.”

He opens the door.

Inside, it's just as I expected, and my heart soars with how adorable the little house is. Everything is wooden inside—wooden floors, walls, dressers, bookshelves. “It feels like Hansel and Gretel lived here,” I say as we walk inside and take it in.

“Right? So, that's her kitchen,” he says, pointing to a small room at the back. It's not completely outdated, as I thought it would be; it has just enough appliances to make a meal. We pass a tiny living room with a non-wooden couch, and then go up a rickety set of wooden stairs. At the top is her bedroom, with a small dresser and tiny bed. I turn around to look out the window and see the tree staring back at us, hugging us with its branches. I can see why she wanted to live here; I'd love to wake up to that view every morning. Everything is quiet. My mind is quiet. After last night, I needed this.

I turn around and see Bennett staring at me, his eyes soft and smiling. I walk to him and wrap my arms around his waist, pulling him toward me. “Thank you for taking me here. I needed it.”

His arms come around my shoulders and I can feel his cheek pressed against the top of my head. I close my eyes and lean into him, knowing that hugs don't usually last this long, at least they never have for me, but not caring. Because right now, this is the only place I want to be.

He pulls away a little, and I feel a repeat of last night. I brace myself for him to push me back, but something about the way he looks at me says he won't. He rests his forehead against mine, and, this close, I'm able to see him, really see him. There's apprehension in his eyes, fear, and I want to tell him it's okay, that it'll be okay, just like he told me earlier. But when I open my mouth, his face changes to resolution, and he takes my chin in his hands and he kisses me.

I feel light, like I'm floating, like nothing can hold me down as I lean into him, into our kiss. He was right—those other moments weren't perfect, especially last night. This is what we needed. His arms hold me tight as our kiss deepens and I smile and I laugh because I can't help it. The house collectively sighs, as if it, too, had been on edge as we danced around our feelings and our pasts. It engulfs us in a hug as he kisses me again, brushing my hair off my face with his hand.

“Okay?” he asks, searching my eyes.

I smile up at him, and answer, “Yes, okay.”

He grins back and pulls me in for another kiss, and this time he's the one smiling and laughing and I don't want it
to end. We add another memory to the house, something that's very much alive.

The house is not full of death; it's full of life.

We walk back outside, back to the tree's reaching grip. Bennett pulls me down with him onto the grass, and we collapse against the strong base.

“I think we definitely broke one of your parents' rules,” Bennett jokes, playing with my hand, tracing the lines and ridges with his finger.

“They said no boys . . . they never said no kissing boys.”

“I feel it might be implied.” He smiles.

“Well, it's all your fault,” I say, resting between the crux of his arm and body.

“Oh, is it?” he asks, leaning back against the tree. He looks at me again, and then says, “You were unexpected.”

“Good unexpected, or bad unexpected?” I ask.

“Definitely good. No other girl has ever turned down any advances within moments of meeting me—despite me not even offering anything.”

“Oh, yeah,” I say, covering my face with my hands. That
is
the first thing I said to him, wasn't it? “That's embarrassing.”

“Not embarrassing,” he says, taking my hand away. “Cute. You're different, and I like that.”

“Every girl loves being called ‘different.'”

“You know what I mean,” he says.

“You are, too,” I admit, and he smiles. “And also quite unexpected.”

“Didn't expect Treena to have awesome friends like me?”

“Ha, no, it's not that. I just wasn't planning on . . . becoming invested in someone while here.”

“Yeah.” He takes my hand in his again. “And it's Thursday, so you've only got . . .”

“Two more days here.”

“Right,” he says.

“Right.”

“And, after last time, I can't—”

“Bennett,” I interrupt him.

“Yeah?” he asks, looking at me, clearly thinking about what comes next and not what's happening now.

“Let's not think about the future. Or the past.”

“It's hard not to,” he says sullenly, and I turn around and face him, placing my hands on his waist.

“Hey, we walked through the lichgate,” I say.

“Okay,” he says, confused.

“So we're alive. We're alive and living.”

“Wasn't that the other side? Aren't we supposed to be dead on this side? Or something like that?”

“You're killing my motivational talk,” I deadpan. “You've been giving them to me all week. It's my turn.”

“Oh, sorry, continue.” He grins, sitting up straighter and pulling me onto his lap so I'm somewhat kneeling around
his outstretched legs, somewhat straddling them.

“We're alive. Let's just be alive together, okay?”

“Okay,” he says, kissing me again.

“Luke Skywalker would not be worried.”

“Please, I'm clearly more Han Solo.”

“Does every guy want to be Han Solo?”

He looks at me and answers, “Obviously. He's a pirate. And he flies the
Millennium Falcon
. And he gets the girl.” He's completely serious, and I smile. Because there's nothing fake about him. Nothing at all. So I lean onto him and he circles his arms around me. We stay like that for a while, as the wind blows through the leaves and passes over us.

The tree is all around us, and it still feels so large, so vast. We are two branches rising up, and falling back down, finding and twisting around each other. We look into each other's eyes, and when he kisses me again, I'm only thinking of the present.

There may be no future for us; there's just now. And now is enough.

We walk out from the park and head back to Bennett's car. “Capitol?” I ask. “Bee seems probably the scariest.”

“Scarier than your grandmother or Chad?” Bennett asks.

“Well, okay, maybe not. But I think I want to start there, with her, since we weren't able to yesterday.”

“Capitol,” he repeats, authoritatively nodding in agreement. We get into the car and I assume he knows the way, so I just sit back and let him drive. “Excited? Nervous?” he asks.

“More nervous, really. There's always a chance she'll refuse to talk to us.”

“There is that,” he says, “but who can resist such charming people?”

“Someone who hates the questions we're going to ask?”

“Maude.”

“Yes, Bennett?”

“You are far too pessimistic for our super-awesome detective adventures.” I shake my head and laugh. Our ride is quiet, mostly, as I figure out what I want to say, how to even introduce myself without consequences. I let my mind wander until we park on the second floor of a garage.

When we get outside, I finally see the capitol building.

“Wow, that is . . . um . . . suggestive,” I say.

“Yeah, I don't know what they were thinking. The domed building in the front is where the museum is. It's the old capitol. The, uh, erection behind it is where all the government stuff happens now. Pun embarrassingly intended. I couldn't help it.”

“Gotcha,” I say as we climb the steps to the historic building in front that looks more stately than the rest of Tallahassee, as if it belongs in D.C. and not a college town.

Bennett stops before we get inside. “Do you want me to come? I can stay here, you know. It's cool.”

“No,” I say, shaking my head. “I think, with Bee, I need moral support.”

“Then moral support I will be,” he says, and follows me through the doors.

Inside, we come face-to-face with a grand staircase. There's a plaque nearby on the wall, and I read that the building was originally erected in 1845, but more recently
restored to look like it did in 1902. We could go upstairs and see the history of Florida's government, visit the gift shop, or walk to the reception desk. With a nod, we go to the desk.

“Hi, um,” I say, hoping I sound intelligent to the woman behind the desk. She's older, probably a volunteer who remembers when this building was the new capitol and not the old one. “We're here to see Bee Shrayer?”

“Who?” the woman asks in a shaky voice, and I'm not sure if she didn't hear me or we're wrong, and Bee doesn't work here.

“Bee. Shrayer,” Bennett says, louder and more slowly, using her married name like I did.

“Oh! Bee. Yes, she's upstairs. I'll call her down.”

I steal a glance at Bennett while the woman places the call. He crosses his fingers, and I do the same, when she hangs up the phone.

“She'll be right down.”

“Thanks,” I say, and we walk over to an exhibit describing how most governors are sworn in on the very steps we just walked up. I get out my camera and take a picture of the staircase, the plaque, the old documents stored in glass cases.

“Can I help you two?” a woman—Bee—asks us. “Are you here for the school paper interview?”

I straighten up and instantly get nervous. This woman is the exact opposite of Jessica. She's dressed smartly, in a dark suit and matching glasses. But unlike Jessica, this woman
ostensibly hates my mother. This is Bee, who refused to talk to me. And I'm here, in front of her. Not taking no for an answer, but also terrified. “Oh, no,” I say, stumbling a bit. She's even more intimidating than I imagined. If Jessica was a carefree butterfly, Bee is concrete and stone. “Um, we are, I mean, I am . . . I'm Maude,” I finally conclude.

“Maude,” she muses. Then her eyes go from cloudy to bright as she realizes who I am. “Maude,” she says again, turning my name into a reprimand. “How did you . . . why did you?”

“I'm sorry, we're sorry, for visiting you at work like this,” I say quickly, hoping not to lose her while surreptitiously looking for guards. “I know you don't want to see me, and don't want to talk to me about my mother, but I had to find you. I'm only in town for another day, and I want to learn everything I can about my mother, and if that meant I had to track you down at work, I did it. I'm really, really sorry, but I have to know. If you don't want to talk to me, I'll leave, but I had to . . . try,” I finish, taking a breath and letting the nervous energy out of my body.

She stares at me hard, crossing her arms in front of her body, and then moves her eyes to Bennett. “And you are?”

“A friend, ma'am,” he says, looking as nervous as I feel.

She looks back at me, takes a breath, then says, “Come with me,” motioning for us to follow her past the staircase and out a back door to a concrete courtyard that separates this building from the new one. We keep walking behind
her, following the clicking of her heels, down another set of stairs so we're back to street level. She gestures to a black table with a yellow umbrella over it, and we all sit down. A part of me is relieved, while the other part is still on edge.

“This is where I oftentimes eat lunch,” she says, breathing deep and not looking up to meet our eyes. “I thought it would be best to speak out here, away from my colleagues.”

“Thank you,” I say breathlessly.

“Don't thank me yet,” she says, shaking her head and finally looking up. “I
told
you that I didn't want to get into this.”

“I know, and I'm really sorry, but—”

“I told you that I wanted to leave it behind, but you came here anyway. You tracked me down at my job.”

“It's just—” I start, cheeks heating up.

“I can have you escorted out, you know that, right?”

“I really just want to—”

“Want to what?” she demands.

“Talk,” I finally get out, embarrassed. “I really just want to talk to you. If you don't want to answer, that's perfectly fine, I just needed to see you.”

“But why me?”

“Because I only found a few people my mother knew, from an old high school photo, and I'd hate myself for not following up on all of them.”

She assesses me and I stop blinking. “I admire your tenacity. But you still went about it the wrong way.” She
hesitates, then asks, “Why me?”

“I have nothing on her,” I admit. “Just a few old photographs and some old stories from Jessica. I still don't know who my mother really was. And I don't want to leave until I get every story I can. So I can have something to hold on to, and inform me about . . .”

“About you?” she asks warily.

“Yeah,” I admit.

“Right. Okay, well,” she says, rubbing her hands together. “I still don't think I can help you.”

“You can try?” I push, knowing this is the last time I'll ask. If she says no, we'll leave.

After what feels like an hour, she nods. “What do you know so far?”

So I tell her everything. Her eyebrows raise when I mention Key Club, and when I mention Jessica again, she lowers her head. All of this means something to her—I just don't know what.

“You have done a lot.” She hesitates again, then says, “Claire and I were good friends in high school. Best friends. We met in a history class during our freshman year, and simply clicked. She was more outspoken than me, quite a bit, but she was, I suppose, the yin to my yang. Opposites attract and all that.”

“What was she like back then?”

“She was smart and caring, and spirited, that's for sure. Always speaking her mind. She wasn't the kind of person
who lied to you just to make you feel better. Though painful at times, it was also refreshing. It wasn't until later, when she became Clarabelle, that things changed.”

“Her nickname,” I say.

“Right. That stupid nickname.” She shakes her head. “Have you ever seen a person act one way, and then completely change into another person a second later? To me, she was Claire, this amazing friend—this best friend—I had. But then when she met Jessica and fell into her other crowd, she became Clarabelle. And people loved Clarabelle so much, Claire rarely ever came back out.”

I feel things clicking together and starting to make sense. How she could be one thing, and how she could be another. My mind flashes to Treena.

“So is that why you stopped being friends?” I ask.

Bee shakes her head. Under the table, I feel Bennett's hand on my knee, palm up. I place my hand in his for comfort. I like that he's here, but not interrupting, not making it about him. He's just
here
. “I was dating this guy Chad senior year. It was the first guy I really liked, and Claire knew that. She actually set us up. I'd liked him for a while, and . . . wow, I haven't thought of this in years.”

She looks down at her long, thin fingers, and taps them gently. “As I'm sure you've guessed, he cheated on me with her.”

My heart drops. For her, for me.

“I know it sounds absurd that I'm still upset about it
years later, but he was my first love. And she was my best friend. And worse, she knew how much it would affect me—not just being cheated on, but the similarity of it all,” she says, then explains, “The same thing had happened to my mother—my father had an affair with her best friend. I cried to Claire dozens of times about it; she was there for me. At least I thought she was. But then . . . anyway, after that, we didn't talk. I just . . . I didn't understand how someone could change so quickly, and so completely.”

“I'm so sorry.” I look over at Bennett and he, too, is looking down. He's been there; he understands.

“Yes, well, it's okay now, obviously. But at the time, it felt like the end of the world.” She pauses. “And high school is hard enough as it is.”

“What happened after?” I ask, having to know. This story does have a happy ending, right? She's here now.

“Oh, a lot of things, but that's not important. I graduated school, went to college, and am here now. I never really spoke with her again, and it killed me. It still does, in a way.” We're quiet for a second, letting her words settle among us. “I've only told one other person about all of this, my husband, and even he doesn't know the whole story.”

“You shouldn't have had to go through that,” I say, shaking my head.

“It's okay,” Bee says, and she's strong, stronger than I would be. I probably would have kicked us out if I were her. She had reason to keep us away; I can't believe I pushed
so hard. “I just didn't want to relive it. It's not just talking about it; it's you.”

“Me?” I ask, confused.

She shakes her head. “I was scared of what I'd see. And I was right to be. You look just like her. You're her.”

“Oh . . .” I say.

“It reminds me of all the things we said and did and shouldn't have. It reminds me that I hated her for what happened, but I hate myself, too, because I never got to . . . we never cleared things up before she . . .”

“Died,” I say, and she puts her head in her hands and nods.

“She left, and I never said good-bye. We were best friends,” she says again, sniffling. I put my hand on her shoulder and can't believe how different she is from Jessica, how strong she is. Her biggest regret is not forgiving my mother, for something that didn't need forgiving.

“I'm so sorry we brought all of this up.”

“It's okay, it's okay,” she says, shaking her head. “I just wish I was able to talk to her, just one more time. I've forgiven her now; maybe I would have, then.”

“I'm sure she knew you didn't hate her.”

“I just wonder what was going on in her mind that whole time. And I wish I could have been there for her . . . through it all.”

I look at her carefully, and say, “You're a good friend. You really are.”

“Thank you.” She smiles gently, then furrows her
brow. “Can I ask you something?”

“Of course,” I say.

“You came here looking for information about your mother. . . . What about your father?”

I balk. “I don't know who my father is,” I admit. “Do you . . . ?”

“Oh, no. Like I said, we weren't talking then. I just wonder . . .”

“If it was Chad?” I answer her thought.

“Yes . . .”

“I don't know.” I shake my head again. “And I don't know if I'll ever know.”

“Are you going to see him while you're here?”

“I'm going to try,” I say. “I'm curious.”

She nods, then says, “Despite all that I've said, he's a good guy. At least he was.”

Good,
I think. “
Good.”
I look back at her and see her glancing at the building, perhaps needing to leave. So I ask one more question. “Her art—did you know anything about her art?”

“Yes, I remember. I didn't get it, really, but I loved it. It was different . . . like her.”

“I'm a photographer, and I just, you know, it's something we have in common.”

She looks at me and nods, saying, “It's a good thing to have in common.” She looks back at the building again, and I get it.

“We should leave you alone, let you get back to work.”

“Yes, right,” she says, almost in a daze. “I'm sorry I was not open to talking prior to today, but as you can tell, this was all a bit hard. But thank you for coming by. I think I needed to revisit Claire.”

“Thank you for talking to us,” I answer, getting up. Bennett stands next to me, his hand on my lower back.

Bee looks up at me and adds, “Your mother was wonderful. You should know that. She was crazy, and we didn't end on good terms, but she really was wonderful. She was my lifeline.”

“Thank you,” I say, meaning it. Because I needed to hear that. More than she knew.