Almost, Maine Read online

  Ginette looked at Pete like he was crazy and shook her head and turned and started to go again. And had barely taken one more step when Pete said almost triumphantly, “And closer!”

  Ginette stopped. And turned to Pete, who still had a goofy grin on his face.

  And she tried to understand what he was saying. But couldn’t.

  Part puzzled, part hurt, and mostly annoyed, she started to leave again.

  But when she had taken just one more step away from him, Pete called out, “And closer.”

  Ginette stopped. And turned to Pete again.

  And shook her head and shrugged again, completely at a loss.

  And then continued on her way on the path out of Skyview Park, which was taking her west alongside the Road to Nowhere.

  And with every step she took, Pete called to her, eagerly explaining that she was getting “closer and closer and closer and closer…” to him. Which made Ginette walk faster and faster and faster and faster, because she really didn’t want to hear that anymore, especially when the fact was, she was getting farther and farther and farther and farther away from him.

  It wasn’t long before all Pete could see of Ginette was her silhouette against the pool of light from her flashlight. It was getting smaller and smaller and smaller and smaller the farther away she got. And it started dropping out of sight as she descended the little hill that the observatory was on.

  And then it disappeared.

  And Pete was alone.

  And his goofy smile faded.

  And he started to panic a little. Because this was not quite how he had planned for the evening to go. He didn’t know exactly how he had planned for it to go—but this was definitely not it.

  He suddenly didn’t like his theory very much. Because—while it was true that Ginette was getting closer and closer and closer to him with every step she took, it was also true that she was getting farther and farther and farther away from him.

  Oh, no.

  What had he done?

  He had just experienced one of the greatest things he would ever experience. And now … well, it seemed he had ruined it.

  He wanted to get up and go after the girl he loved.

  But he couldn’t move. Because that strange lightness he had been feeling had been replaced by darkness—and a painful heaviness. It made him feel like he had a brick of osmium, the densest naturally occurring element, in his gut.

  And he was scared and confused.

  And embarrassed.

  So he just sat. On the bench. Alone. Trying to figure out what to do.

  * * *

  And Ginette walked.

  2

  Ginette made her way west along the path from the observatory at Skyview Park, which ran parallel to the Road to Nowhere, until the path and the road merged.

  As she walked, she wondered why she was leaving Pete behind.

  A few minutes ago, she had told Pete she loved him.

  And—it took him a while—but Pete eventually told her that he loved her, too.

  And now Ginette was hurt and sad and confused—and leaving Pete behind.

  And she shouldn’t have been leaving Pete.

  She should have been staying with him and sitting on the bench with him, basking in some sort of afterglow or something.

  But she wasn’t staying and sitting and basking in any sort of glow.

  She was leaving. Because when she poured her heart out to Pete and told him that she thought she was about as close to him as she could possibly be, he said, “Not really.”

  He could have said, “Yeah.”

  Or, “Cool.”

  Or nothing.

  But he said, “Not really.” And then went on to say that Ginette wasn’t really close to him at all. That she was actually about as far away from him as she could possibly be.

  What did he mean?

  And why had he said that—when he had said it?

  * * *

  Soon the path merged with the Road to Nowhere, and Ginette crossed the road for safety, so she would be walking against traffic, so she could see the headlights of oncoming vehicles before they saw her.

  She stayed close to the snowbanks—which were almost as tall as she was. And continued west.

  And, at 7:50, she came to the Gallaghers’ potato farm, where Ginette’s mom had picked potatoes when she was a teenager, back when the farm was still operational. Schools in northern Maine closed for three weeks every fall so high schoolers could help farmers get their crop out of the ground. Not many farmers employed hand pickers anymore, so Ginette hadn’t been able to find work over the last few harvests. But she’d be sixteen in the summer—old enough to work on one of the Norsworthys’ mechanical harvesters in the coming fall. And she hoped Mrs. Norsworthy would hire her.

  As Ginette walked, she wondered what she was going to do with the rest of her evening.

  She’d be home—alone. Because her mom was working.

  And she wasn’t sure she wanted to be alone.

  But that’s what she was.

  And then she started wallowing in her loneliness—and wondered if she was going to be alone for the rest of her life. Like the Gallaghers’ son, East—who was about to experience one of the extraordinary things that did or didn’t happen on that Friday night.

  But East Gallagher didn’t feel like he was about to experience anything extraordinary when Ginette walked by his house.

  It had been a pretty ordinary day.

  He had plowed some driveways.

  And shoveled some walkways and paths to oil fills and propane tanks.

  And now he was eating his dinner: noodles with hamburger and butter and some peas and potatoes.

  When he was done, he let Hound lick off his plate, and then he put it in the white enamel-coated cast-iron basin in his kitchen.

  He looked at the Wildflowers of Maine clock over the sink and it told him it was 8:20. Time for bed. East still woke up at 4:30 a.m. like he did when he was a farmer. So he still went to bed at 8:30.

  He headed over to the staircase landing and flicked off the downstairs lights and flicked on the upstairs hall light. “Come on, Hound.” Hound obeyed and started up the stairs a little more slowly than he used to, and East followed, a little more slowly than he used to. And the two large creatures lumbered up the stairs. When they reached the second-floor landing, canine and human shuffled into the room East had slept in his whole life. It was a large room with a big picture window that afforded a view of the backyard and, beyond it, the first potato field his parents ever planted.

  Hound hauled himself up onto the bed with some help from his owner. East pulled the covers back and his old pup thunked down on his side of the bed and curled up into a dog doughnut. East kissed Hound on the head and pulled the covers over him and wished he could fall asleep as fast as his best friend did. Then he turned his bedside lamp on and went to the bathroom and brushed his teeth and then flicked the hall light off and went back into his room.

  He was about to get out of his Carhartts and Scotch-plaid flannel and turn off his bedside lamp and slide into his side of the bed—when he found himself drawn to his bedroom window. He stared out the glass pane and had the strangest, strongest feeling that someone was out there. Someone he wanted to know. Or needed to know.

  But he couldn’t see anyone—or much of anything, save for his reflection in the glass. So he went over to his bedside lamp and switched it off and went back to the window.

  His eyes eventually adjusted to the darkness, and he could make out the silhouettes of the old barn and the Dr. Seuss–like spruce trees in his backyard, and beyond it, the expanse of the old potato field.

  And he couldn’t shake the feeling that someone was out there.

  But he couldn’t see anyone. Which wasn’t too surprising. Because it was dark out there.

  And then he shook off the feeling, because why would anyone be out there in the middle of the night in the middle of winter?

  So he peeled off his Carha
rtts and his flannel and went to bed. And lay there for a while. And was cold. Bedrooms in Maine are always cold in winter.

  But soon his body heat warmed the bed covers enough that he started to drift off to sleep—but only started. Before he completely fell asleep, he was roused by a strange lightness that seemed to be filling his insides. The lightness made him feel like he had the glow of a welding torch burning inside him. And like he was floating in an inner tube on Echo Lake in the summertime.

  It also seemed like it was what made him get out of bed and go to the window and look outside again.

  East cupped his hands around his eyes and pressed his hands against the glass and stared out into the darkness, certain that someone was out there—someone he had to meet.

  And then he slid his Carhartts on over his boxers and pulled his flannel over his gray T-shirt and hurried downstairs, where he put on a coat, pulled on some boots, grabbed his Maglite, and went outside to see who he might find out there in the darkness.

  Motion-sensor lights flicked on when he went outside. They illuminated a portion of his backyard—and peeved him a little, because the light they threw allowed him to see only what was in his immediate vicinity and not what was out there in the darkness. And what he was looking for was out there in the darkness.

  So he trudged through the deep snow, passed through the pool of light, and made his way into the darkness. Shortly after he did so, the motion-sensor lights flickered off. And he couldn’t see a thing. So he stopped and let his eyes adjust to the lack of light. As they did, he thought about how strange darkness is. It’s not there. But you can’t see through it. Not without a light, anyway. So he clicked on his Maglite and continued on his way to see if anyone was actually out there in the old potato field.

  The going was difficult because the snow was thigh-deep in places. But he persevered. And after about a five-minute traipse, he stopped. Because he felt like he wasn’t alone.

  Someone was definitely out there, he felt.

  “Hello!” called East—loudly enough to be heard but gently enough not to frighten anyone.

  “Hello!” called a woman’s voice cheerily. East shone his Maglite in the voice’s direction. And it revealed a woman looking intently up at the sky.

  She looked like she was modeling winter clothing for a catalog that sold expensive and stylish winter clothes to people who live in warm places so they have something nice to wear when they visit winter on the occasional weekend. Her jacket was white and had a brightly colored flower pattern exploding all over it. And she had a cerulean blue hat on—with matching scarf and gloves.

  And she looked cold.

  And it wasn’t cold.

  It was nineteen degrees.

  The woman looked like she definitely wasn’t from northern Maine.

  Or from anywhere in Maine.

  Or from anywhere where winter actually happened.

  East wondered why she was standing in the middle of his yard—in the middle of winter—in the middle of the night—staring up at the sky.

  “I thought I saw someone out here,” he said, hoping the woman would explain what she was doing in his yard. But she didn’t say anything. So East said, “I was about to go to bed and I thought I saw you from my window.”

  The woman didn’t respond and just kept looking up at the sky.

  East followed her gaze upward to see what she was looking at.

  It was just the same old northern night sky that he had been looking up at his whole life.

  And then he looked back at the woman and asked, “Is there something I can do for you?” He hoped he sounded like he was there to help.

  The woman turned to East and said, “Oh, no—thank you, though. I’m just here to see the northern lights.”

  And then she smiled and resumed looking skyward.

  “Okay,” said East, and he wondered if maybe she was one of those astro-tourists he had been hearing about. “Okay,” repeated East. “It’s just that—it’s kinda late.” It was about 8:45, which was late for East but not for the woman. “And you’re in my yard.”

  “What?—Oh, no!” cried the woman, genuinely concerned. “I am?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry!” The woman was definitely from away, East decided, because she said she was “saw-ree” the way people from away did. (Northern Mainers say they’re “sore-ee” like Canadians do.) “I didn’t know I was in anybody’s yard!” continued the woman, sounding flustered.

  “Well, you are, but it’s okay—”

  “I thought I was just in a random field,” interrupted the woman.

  “Well, it used to be a potato field. But now it’s just … my yard.”

  “Oh,” said the woman as she looked out over the snowy landscape.

  “Well, I hope you don’t mind that I’m here. I’ll see them tonight—the northern lights—and then I’ll be gone. I hope you don’t mind!”

  “Is that your tent?” asked East, having espied a dome-shaped silhouette a few yards away from the woman.

  The woman looked to where East was shining his Maglite. “Um … yeah, yes!” The woman was nodding and smiling.

  “You’ve pitched a tent,” said East blankly.

  “Yeah—”

  “In my yard.”

  “Yeah, so I have a place to sleep after I see them. I hope you don’t mind!”

  “Well,” began East. He didn’t really mind or not mind that this stranger had pitched a tent in his yard, but the woman was getting the feeling that he did, in fact, mind that she was there, and she didn’t want to inconvenience him, because she didn’t like to inconvenience people. “Oh, no!” she cried, “You mind, don’t you?”

  “Um—”

  “Yeah! You do! Oh, no! I’m sorry!” she cried, pronouncing sorry in her from-away way. “I didn’t think you would!” She pulled her cerulean gloves off with her teeth and took a glossy, folded-up wad of paper out of her jacket pocket. “See, I read that … um…” The woman shoved her gloves in her pocket and unfolded the wad of paper, reading from it as she continued. “I read that you wouldn’t mind. See, it says in your brochure that people from Maine live life ‘the way life should be,’ and that, in the tradition of their brethren in rural northern climes like Scandinavia, they’ll let people who are complete strangers like cross-country skiers and hikers and bikers just camp out in their yards if they need to. They’ll just let you.”

  East wondered who had written this brochure—and why she thought it was his.

  “Is it true?” continued the woman. “That they’ll just let you? Camp out?” The woman stuffed the brochure back in her pocket and retrieved her gloves and put them back on. “I’m a hiker,” she clarified. “Is it true? That they’ll just let you stay in their yards if you need to?”

  Before East could answer, the woman was providing information that was more cryptic than illuminating.

  “’Cause I need to. Camp out. ’Cause I’m where I need to be. And I came a long way to be here—I’m from a part of the country that’s a little closer to things. I’ve never been this far north before. Or east.” The woman took in the sky and the wide-open, empty space of the northeasternmost corner of the United States. She felt like she was in a forgotten place. Unthought of, even. Which is one step below forgotten, because forgotten places were once at least thought of.

  “Anyway,” she continued, still marveling at the wide-open space, “it feels like the end of the world. And here I am at the end of the world, and I have nowhere to go, unless it’s not true, I mean, is it true?” asked the woman, turning to East. “Would you let a hiker who was where she needed to be camp out in your yard for free? I mean, if a person really needed to?”

  “Well—”

  “Really, really needed to?”

  The woman fell silent and waited for East’s answer. Which wasn’t forthcoming, because East was a little overwhelmed by all of the woman’s questions. There were so many of them. And they seemed more like demands than questions. W
hich, East had come to learn, was how people from away often asked their questions.

  But East didn’t seem to mind all of the woman’s questions/demands. Because he just wanted to help her out in any way he could. “Well,” he began, “if a person really needed to stay here and camp out … well, I wouldn’t want to get in the way of that, but—”

  “Oh!” cried the woman, interrupting him and rushing him. “Thank you!” she exclaimed. And the next thing East knew, she was hugging him, and her face was embedded in his torso.

  He smelled like woodsmoke and gasoline, and the woman felt like she wanted to smell that smell for the rest of her life.

  And she felt a strange lightness start to fill up her insides. It made her feel like she had the glow of the Milky Way inside her. And like gravity might lose its hold on her.

  East was also feeling that strange lightness—again. This time, it made him feel like part of him was levitating—as if his one self had become two, and his levitating self was looking down at the earthbound one that was being embraced by the woman. But then the woman suddenly pulled away from him, and East felt his floating self crash back down into his earthbound one. And he felt like a magical spell had been broken.

  “I’m so sorry I did that,” said the woman, stunned by all the feelings she was feeling.

  “It’s okay,” said East. He hadn’t minded at all that the woman had hugged him.

  “I don’t know why I did that. I guess I just really appreciate you letting me stay here—so I can do what I need to do. You have no idea how much it means to me. Thank you.”

  “Sure,” said East.

  And the woman smiled and focused her attention skyward again.

  And East watched the woman watch the sky. And felt like he could have watched her forever.

  And then the woman suddenly gasped and said, “Oh, no!” And she started pressing her hands to her chest as if she was having trouble breathing.

  “What’s wrong?” asked East. “Are you okay?”

  The woman had gotten her flashlight out of her backpack and flicked it on and started searching frantically for something around her campsite.