Free In Every Way by Nic Brown Page B

knows she has already missed her opportunity to replicate for herselfby opting to not have a roommate when she lived in the dorm at UNC, by opting to then give birth to a child, by deciding to then drop out of school altogether. The possibility of making a true friend, one who imprints for life like Karen, now seems even more remote than before. Maria will go back to school, this she knows, but she does not want it to be in Chapel Hill. In the last few weeks, overwhelmed by a desire to escape any town occupied by both Jack and Icy People, Maria has submitted a transfer application to Yale. It is a dream escape for when her mother leaves this world, a place she wants to attend so badly that she tries to keep herself from thinking about it too much, lest her hopes rise to a level from which they might never safely descend. Maria knows her chances of admission are slim at best and feels like she might not have even finished the application correctly. Her essay was about cancer, conception, and drawing self-portraits. She is afraid it is only crazy.
    Maria steps out of the wheezing Volvo, her mother still asleep in the passenger seat. She waves to Karen before retrieving her backpack and pillow from the backseat. Karen crushes her cigarette into an ashtray, steps into the yard, and says, “Can I help?”
    Maria raises her small load, as if to say I got it, and as she does, a swarm of white feathers appears around her legs. In the breeze they skid across Karen’s lawn. Maria looks down. The pillow has sprung a leak. Maria grabs at it and a new burst of feathers shoots out in a small, slow explosion. This is the pillow Maria has slept on since fifth grade, that her mother insisted she travel to summer camp with. Her mother has slept beside her on this pillow. Jack has slept with his head on this pillow. Maria had this pillow in the hospital during labor. Bonacieux has even cried here, restless, while her first day shimmeredcold and bright around her. A corner is now torn. Its innards have found the light.
    â€œCome here,” Karen says. “Come here.” Maria begins to cry.
    It has been only two weeks since Jack told Maria about Icy People, who according to Facebook has recently released three singles on her MySpace page, which Maria has since examined closely. To Maria’s dismay, one of the new songs, a theme song of sorts titled simply “Icy People,” is excellent. Its chorus—“Icy People got things and stuff”—will not cease playing within Maria’s mind.
    In Karen’s arms, Maria feels a rush to tell her about Icy People, Jack, and Bonacieux. She does not know what her mother has already shared. But Maria knows it will all emerge in time. Karen eases information out of people by making them feel like nothing they say might shock. “I’m sorry,” is all Maria says for now. She feels that Karen already understands it all anyway.
    Karen’s house is furnished with marble-topped dressers, mirrors so large they make Maria nervous about their hanging devices, antique cabinets filled with porcelain plates, portraits of ancient bearded men staring out from fields of darkness, and glass coffee tables standing at attention in seemingly almost every room. Bookshelves hold large-format catalogs from the art museums of other continents, hardback Junior League cookbooks, and John Irvings and John Grishams and John Updikes. In the living room, a pair of red reading glasses rests in the spine of an open Town & Country . An iPad glimmers on the table beside it. Maria feels a longing to be in the very room she is now in. The physical act of being there in the moment is not good enough. She sinks into the white leather couch and wishes she were more than just a visitor.
    It is part of Karen’s design, this desire to belong. She cultivates guests, always convincing them to stay longer than they had planned. Maria’s mother says this is to keep her from getting lonely.