Read Online To See You Again by Alice Adams - Free Book Online
Authors: Alice Adams
Tags: United States, Fiction, General, Social Science, Contemporary Women, womens studies, Women, Social life and customs, Women - United States - Social Life and Customs - Fiction
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ordinary high-school girl? The idea made her uncomfortable, as though he had suddenly moved closer to her.
“I believe they were very aware of it, my not being really theirs,” Whitney Iverson said, again looking away from her. “Especially when I messed up in some way, like choosing Reed, instead of Stanford. Then graduate school …”
As he talked on, seeming to search for new words for the feelings engendered in him by his adoptive parents, Dylan felt herself involuntarily retreat. No one had ever talked to her in quite that way, and she was uneasy. She looked through the long leaded windows to the wavering sunlight beyond; she stared at the dust-moted shafts of light in the dingy room where they were.
In fact, for Dylan, Whitney’s very niceness was somehow against him; his kindness, his willingness to talk, ran against the rather austere grain of her fantasies.
Apparently sensing what she felt, or some of it, Whitney stopped short, and he laughed in a self-conscious way. “Well, there you have the poor-adopted-kid self-pity trip of the month,” he said. “ ‘Poor,’ Christ, they’ve drowned me in money.”
Feeling that this last was not really addressed to her (and thinking of Flower’s phrase about the birthmark, “drowned at birth”), Dylan said nothing. She stared at his hands, which were strong and brown, long-fingered, and she suddenly, sharply, wished that he would touch her. Touch, instead of all this awkward talk.
Later, considering that conversation, Dylan found herself moved, in spite of herself. How terrible to feel not only that you did not really belong with your parents but thatthey were disappointed in you. Whitney Iverson hadn’t said anything about it, of course, but they must have minded about the birthmark, along with college and graduate school.
She and Flower were so clearly mother and daughter—obviously, irrevocably so; her green eyes were Flower’s, even her crooked front teeth. Also, Flower had always thought she was wonderful. “My daughter Dylan,” she would say, in her strongest, proudest voice.
But what had he possibly meant about “drowned in money”? Was he really rich, or had that been a joke? His car was an old VW convertible, and his button-down shirts were frayed, his baggy jackets shabby. Would a rich person drive a car like that, or wear those clothes? Probably not, thought Dylan; on the other hand, he did not seem a man to say that he was rich if he was not.
In any case, Dylan decided that she was giving him too much thought, since she had no real reason to think that he cared about her. Maybe he was an Iverson, and a snob, and did not want anything to do with a waitress. If he had wanted to see her, he could have suggested dinner, a movie or driving down to Santa Cruz on one of her days off. Probably she would have said yes, and on the way home, maybe on a bluff overlooking the sea, he could have parked the car, have turned to her.
So far, Dylan had had little experience of ambiguity; its emerging presence made her both impatient and confused. She did not know what to do or how to think about the contradictions in Whitney Iverson.
Although over the summer Dylan and Whitney had met almost every day in the library, this was never a stated arrangement, and if either of them missed a day, as they each sometimes did, nothing was said. This calculated diffidenceseemed to suit them; they were like children who could not quite admit to seeking each other out.
One day, when Dylan had already decided that he would not come, and not caring really—she was too tired to care, what with extra guests and heavier trays—after she had been in the library for almost half an hour, she heard running steps, his, and then Whitney Iverson burst in, quite out of breath. “Oh … I’m glad you’re still here,” he got out, and he sat down heavily beside her. “I had some terrific news.” But then on the verge of telling her, he stopped, and laughed, and said,
“I believe they were very aware of it, my not being really theirs,” Whitney Iverson said, again looking away from her. “Especially when I messed up in some way, like choosing Reed, instead of Stanford. Then graduate school …”
As he talked on, seeming to search for new words for the feelings engendered in him by his adoptive parents, Dylan felt herself involuntarily retreat. No one had ever talked to her in quite that way, and she was uneasy. She looked through the long leaded windows to the wavering sunlight beyond; she stared at the dust-moted shafts of light in the dingy room where they were.
In fact, for Dylan, Whitney’s very niceness was somehow against him; his kindness, his willingness to talk, ran against the rather austere grain of her fantasies.
Apparently sensing what she felt, or some of it, Whitney stopped short, and he laughed in a self-conscious way. “Well, there you have the poor-adopted-kid self-pity trip of the month,” he said. “ ‘Poor,’ Christ, they’ve drowned me in money.”
Feeling that this last was not really addressed to her (and thinking of Flower’s phrase about the birthmark, “drowned at birth”), Dylan said nothing. She stared at his hands, which were strong and brown, long-fingered, and she suddenly, sharply, wished that he would touch her. Touch, instead of all this awkward talk.
Later, considering that conversation, Dylan found herself moved, in spite of herself. How terrible to feel not only that you did not really belong with your parents but thatthey were disappointed in you. Whitney Iverson hadn’t said anything about it, of course, but they must have minded about the birthmark, along with college and graduate school.
She and Flower were so clearly mother and daughter—obviously, irrevocably so; her green eyes were Flower’s, even her crooked front teeth. Also, Flower had always thought she was wonderful. “My daughter Dylan,” she would say, in her strongest, proudest voice.
But what had he possibly meant about “drowned in money”? Was he really rich, or had that been a joke? His car was an old VW convertible, and his button-down shirts were frayed, his baggy jackets shabby. Would a rich person drive a car like that, or wear those clothes? Probably not, thought Dylan; on the other hand, he did not seem a man to say that he was rich if he was not.
In any case, Dylan decided that she was giving him too much thought, since she had no real reason to think that he cared about her. Maybe he was an Iverson, and a snob, and did not want anything to do with a waitress. If he had wanted to see her, he could have suggested dinner, a movie or driving down to Santa Cruz on one of her days off. Probably she would have said yes, and on the way home, maybe on a bluff overlooking the sea, he could have parked the car, have turned to her.
So far, Dylan had had little experience of ambiguity; its emerging presence made her both impatient and confused. She did not know what to do or how to think about the contradictions in Whitney Iverson.
Although over the summer Dylan and Whitney had met almost every day in the library, this was never a stated arrangement, and if either of them missed a day, as they each sometimes did, nothing was said. This calculated diffidenceseemed to suit them; they were like children who could not quite admit to seeking each other out.
One day, when Dylan had already decided that he would not come, and not caring really—she was too tired to care, what with extra guests and heavier trays—after she had been in the library for almost half an hour, she heard running steps, his, and then Whitney Iverson burst in, quite out of breath. “Oh … I’m glad you’re still here,” he got out, and he sat down heavily beside her. “I had some terrific news.” But then on the verge of telling her, he stopped, and laughed, and said,
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