The empty chair is right in the center of the table and nobody looks at it. My mom talks about Providence as if the city were paying her to mention it, while my dad nods every now and then. Arthur Vence talks about offices, contracts, and opportunities, and Mrs. Vence moves the food around her plate without really taking a single bite.
Nobody looks at the chair, but I can't stop doing it. Two months ago it belonged to Alice; now it's just an absence with a wooden backrest.
"If everything goes well, we will be able to open the second office before December," my father says.
"That would be ideal," Mr. Vence replies.
Providence. Office. Business. Providence again. I'm beginning to suspect that adults use words as a refuge; they talk about anything as long as they don't have to talk about the only thing that truly matters.
Suddenly, the main door of the Mariner's Pavilion opens. Looking up, I see that Charlie has just arrived. I've always thought that Charlie Vence looks like a person who was born an adult, as if she had come out of her mother's womb with a retirement plan, an organized binder, and the innate ability to intimidate public officials. Alice used to say I was exaggerating. She was probably right, but not by much.
Charlie crosses the restaurant with a calm pace. She doesn't look sad, she doesn't look broken, she doesn't look like someone whose younger sister died two months ago on a highway twenty minutes from here. And that irritates me.
It irritates me because I am broken. I do wake up screaming at midnight from nightmares of the accident, I wake up in the mornings hoping to find a message from her, and I keep looking back every time I hear a similar laugh on the street. Charlie, on the other hand, seems simply like Charlie: functional, efficient, flawless.
"Sorry for the delay," she says as she takes a seat.
"It's okay, sweetheart," her father replies, though she doesn't even look at him.
For a second my brain does something stupid: it looks for Alice behind her, as if she could still appear, as if all of this were a gigantic misunderstanding that someone is going to correct at any moment. But nobody appears. There is only the empty chair left and the silence that nobody at this table wants to acknowledge.
A waiter approaches. It's Jackson; he has known us forever, he knew Alice forever.
"Would you like to hear the chef's recommendations?"
"Pizza," I say before he finishes the question. My mother turns her head, surprised. "Yes, pizza."
"The seafood one?" my mother asks.
"Yes."
Mrs. Vence smiles for the first time all night. It's a small, painful smile.
"It was Alice's favorite."
And there it is. Her name. Finally someone says it. Silence falls over the table immediately, dense and heavy.
It's funny: just two months ago, Alice was the loudest person in New Harbor; now merely mentioning her is enough to leave an entire conversation without oxygen.
I look down at the menu. Alice loved that pizza. Samuel used to say it was a culinary abomination and she insisted he had the palate of an eight-year-old child, though in the end they would end up sharing it anyway. For an instant I can almost see her sitting across from me, laughing, arguing over something absurd... alive. But the memory changes so fast that it leaves me breathless.
Now she is in the front seat of the car with the seatbelt crossing her chest. The yellow lights of the harbor reflect on the window. Charlie is driving and I am behind them. Alice turns around to tell me something, smiling.
I can never manage to remember what she was saying; I only remember that she didn't finish the sentence thanks to a drunk driver.
I look away from the menu. I don't want to keep thinking about that, not here, not in front of everyone. Mrs. Vence looks back down at her plate, my mom slowly twirls the wine glass between her fingers, and Mr. Vence clears his throat.
The conversation tries to move forward. It tries, but it's already wounded. Because once someone mentions Alice, we all start walking around her as if she were a black hole in the middle of the table; as if looking directly at it were too dangerous.
My attention ends up escaping toward the restaurant's large windows. Outside, the harbor begins to light up under the September mist. The boats rock gently in the water and the red brick facades reflect the last lights of the day. A couple walks along the promenade sharing a bag of cider donuts and, further away, a bookstore displays autumn wreaths in the window.
New Harbor always looks pretty at sunset. Ridiculously pretty, like one of those towns that appear on postcards. Alice used to say that was a trap while we observed every detail. Now I just look away.
And then I see the poster stuck on the outside: Autumn Festival. Guest bands. My eyes wander distractedly over the names until I find a familiar one: The Last Person. Of course. Samuel's band.
I feel something like a pang. It's not exactly sadness, nor anger; it's something in between. Because it is impossible to think of Samuel without thinking of Alice, and it is impossible to think of Alice without remembering the last months of her life: the arguments, the reconciliations, the late-night calls, the times she swore she wasn't going to see him anymore, and the times she went back to him. An angry Mr. Vence.
I look away from the poster and that's when I spot him. Samuel is sitting alone on a bench by the pier, a flask between his hands. Two months ago Alice was in love with him; two months ago I thought they would end up getting married someday.
Now I can't even see him without thinking of all the times she ran after him while he was falling to pieces, and suddenly I'm no longer hungry.
"Idiot," I think.
Samuel distractedly twirls the flask between his fingers. He doesn't even seem to be drinking, he just holds it as if it were something else: like a stone, an amulet, or an excuse. I don't care. It's still a flask, it's still Samuel, and I'm still too tired to try to understand him.
"Excited about the move, Danni?" Mr. Vence's voice suddenly brings me back to the table.
I leave the fork on the plate. My dad closes his eyes; he already knows exactly what is coming.
"I would prefer not to answer."
"Danni," my mother warns.
"What?"
"You know exactly what."
"That's why I said I would prefer not to answer."
Mr. Vence tries to force a smile.
"Providence can't seem that terrible to you."
"The city doesn't bother me."
"Then, what bothers you?"
I look at him for a second. The answer is so obvious that I'm surprised he even has to ask.
"Having to leave."
Mr. Vence sighs and adjusts himself in his chair.
"Sometimes staying can also be a way of getting stuck."
There it is. The speech. Changes, new beginnings, new opportunities. I've been hearing different versions of the same three ideas for weeks, as if changing cities were some kind of spiritual surgery.
"I don't feel stuck."
"Not now," he replies.
"Not later either."
"Danni..."
"What?"
My mom shoots me her usual look, the one that begs: please, don't turn this dinner into an argument. Too bad it's already too late. Arthur interlaces his hands over the table and states:
"This town is no longer the same for us."
Nobody answers, because we all know what that phrase really means: it hasn't been the same since Alice died. Silence settles in again. Charlie remains motionless, staring at her plate; I'm not even sure if she is eating.
"I don't think that's a bad thing," I say finally.
"What thing?" Mr. Vence looks up.
"Remembering her."
Mrs. Vence lowers her eyes and my father lets his breath out slowly, but I continue anyway:
"Everyone talks about this place as if it were cursed now, as if the only solution were to run away."
"It's not that," my mother says.
"Then explain to me what it is."
Nobody answers right away, until Mr. Vence speaks up.
"Every street in this town reminds us of Alice."
"Yes," I nod. He seems surprised by my reaction. "Yes, Mr. Vence. That is precisely the point."
Mrs. Vence looks toward the window, my mom concentrates on the tablecloth, and my dad studies his glass of water.
And then, for the first time since she arrived at the restaurant, Charlie looks up. She doesn't look angry, she doesn't look uncomfortable, and she doesn't try to stop me either; she simply observes me. For some reason, that clean and steady gaze unnerves me more than anything else. It lasts barely a second. Then, she looks back down and the moment disappears.
The conversation changes after that. It doesn't get better, it just changes. My mom asks about the autumn festival, Mr. Vence talks about a remodeling at the office, and my father mentions something about the traffic in Providence. Everyone collaborates in the same desperate effort: pretending the last ten minutes didn't happen.
I do it too because I'm tired. Tired of Alice, of the awkward glances, and of everyone acting as if pain were a room we can avoid simply by closing the door.
When the bill finally arrives, I feel a small and pathetic relief. We say goodbye at the entrance of the restaurant; Mrs. Vence hugs my mom, my father shakes Mr. Vence's hand, and Charlie remains a few steps behind them, with the lights of the harbor reflecting golden flashes on her dark coat.
I get into the car and we leave. Nobody speaks for several minutes while the harbor lights disappear in the rearview mirror and the downtown shops are left behind. Silence occupies the entire space.
"Arthur is right about something," my father says finally.
"What a surprise," I look out the window.
"Danni."
"What?"
"You can't live anchored to a place forever."
"I'm not anchored to a place."
"Then, why do you refuse to even consider Providence?"
Because Alice is here, I think. But I don't say it, because if I do it out loud everyone will go quiet again, and I'm sick of the silences.
"Because it's my home."
"It was ours too," my father sighs.
Was. Not is. Was. The word hangs densely inside the car. I lean my head against the window, close my eyes, and, for the first time in weeks, I wish to fall asleep before I start to remember.