Now she turned back to her book. She’d read it in school last year, and though her classmates had found it boring, Lucy was riveted by the political drama, pulled right out of Roman history. But it was different, somehow, to be reading it here, where the actual events had taken place all those hundreds of thousands of years ago. That was the thing about books, she was realizing; they could take you somewhere else entirely, it was true. But it wasn’t the same thing as actually going there yourself.
A few minutes later, she was interrupted again, and she looked up, her face already set with annoyance. But she was surprised to find an old man this time, stooped and wrinkled, with a smile that revealed only a few remaining teeth.
“One for you, bellissima?” he said, opening a case full of simple white cards, each with a hand-sketched outline of a famous Roman site: the Colosseum, the Pantheon, the Trevi Fountain, St. Peter’s Basilica. Even the very steps where Lucy now sat.
When she shook her head, the man frowned, shoving the case forward a bit more. “For your amore, perhaps?” he asked, raising his gray eyebrows, but Lucy only shook her head again.
“Sorry, grazie,” she mumbled, and with a shrug, he snapped the case shut and then shambled off to find the next potential customer.
For a long moment, Lucy just sat there, looking out over the busy square, the man’s drawings still etched in her mind. Then she flipped open her book again.
They were beautiful.
But she had nowhere to send them.
22
In Tacoma, Owen waited.
He’d been the one driving when the car had started making an awful thumping sound, metallic and insistent. His dad had drifted off to sleep about an hour earlier, but he bolted awake at the noise, looking around in bewilderment.
“Pull off,” he’d croaked, pointing to the side of the highway, where there was a short gravel drive with a lookout point where tourists could take photos of Mount Rainier, the hulking rock of a mountain that dominated the horizon.
Owen had turned the wheel and was aiming in that direction when the car let out one last dying groan, rolling to a stop with the back half still on the highway. They’d had to push it the rest of the way themselves, the other cars honking as they flew by.
Now they sat together on the hood as they waited for the tow truck, sharing a bag of pretzels and looking out at the purple mountain, which was crowned in snow.
“What happens if it’s no good anymore?” Owen asked, drumming his fingers against the red paint, which was covered in a layer of dirt and grime.
“It’ll be good for something.”
Owen laughed. “That’s optimistic of you.”
“It’s put in a lot of good miles,” Dad said with a smile. “If we have to scrap it, we’ll figure something out.”
“This would be a great time to get a call about the house.”
Now it was Dad’s turn to laugh. He felt the pocket of his jeans for the outline of his phone, then gave it a little pat. “I’m sure it’ll be any minute now.”
“Asking price at least.”
Dad nodded. “At least.”
“And then we’ll buy a huge place in Seattle,” Owen said. “Maybe something on the water.”
“Oh yeah,” Dad agreed. “With at least four bedrooms.”
“Bartleby can even have his own.”
Dad laughed. “He can have his own wing, if he wants.”
“He’d probably prefer not to,” Owen pointed out, and Dad gave a solemn nod. They were quiet for a little while. The wind rustled the trees, bringing with it the scent of pine, and a flock of birds wheeled overhead. Owen watched as they pumped their wings, moving as one, a constellation of black dots in an otherwise uninterrupted sky. As they shifted direction, he saw that one had fallen behind, and he tracked it with his eyes for a long time. He didn’t realize he was holding his breath until Dad spoke again.
“You know it’ll be okay, right?” he said, and Owen nodded, still watching the bird.
“Yeah,” he said. “I know.”
23
In London, Lucy cried.
There was absolutely nothing to cry about—at least not yet. They’d only just arrived. She hadn’t seen the neighborhood or her school. She hadn’t even seen the inside of the house. But still, the moment the cab had pulled up to the bright yellow door of the little brick building, which was tucked away on a nearly hidden lane, she found herself blinking back tears.
“What’s wrong?” Dad asked once the cab had pulled away, as the three of them stood on the doorstep with their suitcases. The rest of their things had been shipped down while they were in Italy and would be waiting for them inside.
“She misses Scotland,” Mom said, throwing him a look.
“We were barely there,” he said, fumbling with the keys. “If anything, she probably misses New York.”
“You can be homesick for two places at once,” Mom said, sounding exasperated, but then the key finally turned, and Dad shouldered open the yellow door, and the two of them hurried inside, half-giddy with the excitement of another new home and another new start in another new place. And not just any place, but London: which, to them, had always been home.
Lucy, however, lingered on the stoop for another minute, her eyes still damp, wondering which one was true. Maybe she was homesick for New York, or maybe it was Edinburgh. Possibly it was even both.
Or maybe—maybe—it wasn’t a place at all.
24
In Seattle, Owen laughed.
When he saw the place they’d soon be living, he couldn’t help it. It was a little house on the edge of the city, but it looked more like a garden shed or a small barn, with weathered red wood and sagging windows.
“It’s a fixer-upper,” Dad said, beaming at it. There was no way to tamp down his enthusiasm. He’d gotten the job he’d come here for; he’d be part of a crew that was renovating an enormous old warehouse building downtown, turning it into hundreds of apartments at affordable prices. After using the last of their cash to fix the car, they’d spent two nights using it as a bed, sleeping in the parking lot of a Starbucks with the seats reclined. But now he’d gotten an advance on his first paycheck, and it turned out one of the guys on the crew was looking to rent this place out, which meant they’d finally have a house again. Or at least something resembling one.
“It’ll be fun,” Dad said, thumping Owen on the back. “We’ll make it our own.”
There was a small patch of lawn and a few scattered trees, a back garden and a narrow front porch, all of it huddled around the tiny box of a house. As he stood gazing up at it, Owen had the distinct feeling that whether he realized it or not, this was exactly what his father had been looking for all this time. After so many months of flight, it felt like they’d finally landed.
“It’s better than the car, huh?” Dad said, looking at the house with unmistakable pride. “And a pretty far cry from that basement apartment.”
Owen nodded, wondering what the stars would be like out here, remembering the way they’d burned over the darkened city that night, when they’d stood high above the basement, away from everyone and everything.
He’d been holding the shoebox under his arm like a football since they’d gotten out of the car, but now he bent to set it on the ground, letting Bartleby skitter out onto the grass. They watched together as the little turtle made his way over to the porch steps. He had a tendency to bump into things, and sure enough, as soon as he came into contact with the wood, he set his little home down right there on the flagstone and everything disappeared, his head and all four little legs zipping inside his shell. Owen had watched him do this a thousand times, but it still struck him as amazing, to be protected like that, to always be able to escape into your own small pocket of the world.
“Must be kind of nice,” Dad said. “Always having your house handy like that.”
“Not so different from us, really,” Owen said, pointing at the car. “We’ve had our home with us this whole tim
e, too.”
They were both quiet for a moment, and then Dad smiled a slow smile. “Not anymore,” he said, and with that, they headed inside.
25
In the house with the yellow door, Lucy opened a newspaper.
Her eyes went right to an article about San Francisco.
“Did you know there are eleven species of sharks in the San Francisco Bay?” she asked her mother, who raised her eyebrows.
“Fascinating,” she said.
26
In the little red house with the peeling paint, Owen flipped through a magazine.
His eyes got caught on the word Scotland, and he paused.
“Did you know that the river leading out of Edinburgh is called the Firth of Forth?” he asked his dad, who gave him an odd look.
“Interesting,” he said.
27
In line for the bus, Lucy daydreamed.
She was thinking of road trips and mountains and wide-open spaces.
But really, she was thinking of New York.
28
In a coffee shop, Owen’s mind wandered.
He was thinking of castles and hills and cups of tea.
But really, he was thinking of that elevator.
29
In school, Lucy sat quietly at her desk, which faced west.
30
In between classes, Owen paused for a moment, his toes pointing east.
31
In bed that night, Lucy breathed in.
32
In the car that afternoon, Owen breathed out.
33
In London, Lucy thought of Owen.
34
And far away in Seattle, Owen was thinking of her, too.
PART IV
Somewhere
35
On a gray Saturday morning in London—which arrived on the heels of a gray Friday, and before that a gray Thursday as well—Lucy sat in the kitchen of their new house and watched her mom finish brewing a pot of tea.
“Is it like this all year?” she asked, frowning at the window, which was crowded by a low-hanging sky. It had been only two weeks since they’d gotten to town, but already Lucy had nearly forgotten what the sun felt like; everything here was raw and damp and the air still had a bite to it that felt more like winter than spring.
Mom nodded as she carried two mugs to the table. “Growing up, I never really even noticed. But after all these years away, I admit I’m finding it rather dreary.” She paused to take a long sip of tea. It was just the two of them, as it usually was these days. “I was trying to convince your father that a trip someplace warm was in order, but he’s too busy with work at the moment.” She looked over at the oven clock. “Even on a Saturday morning, it would seem.”
It was true. Dad had been working even longer hours than usual since they’d arrived in London, but Lucy didn’t mind. It meant they had less time to travel without her, and that Mom was around more often. To everyone’s surprise, including her own, she wasn’t even bothered when they canceled their plans to be in New York for the summer. Dad couldn’t get away for long enough to make the trip worth it, Mom had no real interest in returning, and, much to everyone’s delight, her brothers had both managed to get internships in London, so for the first time in ages, they’d all be over here together. And that was just fine with Lucy. There were times when she missed New York—the familiarity of it, and her own deep knowledge of the place—but really, there was nothing pulling her back there anymore.
Mom was still talking about escaping the monotonous London weather. “I told him we should go to Athens for the weekend, but he swears he can’t get away right now, even just for a couple of days.”
“Greece,” Lucy murmured, warming her hands on the mug. “Sounds nice.”
“Doesn’t it?”
“Not as nice as Paris, though.”
Mom glanced up, her brow furrowed. “Paris?”
“I’ve always wanted to go,” Lucy said with a shrug. “I don’t know why. There’s just something about it, you know?”
“I know,” Mom said, watching her with a curious expression. “I would have loved to take you. Why didn’t you ever ask?”
Lucy frowned. “Ask what?”
“To come along with us.”
“Because,” Lucy said, grasping about for the words. She felt suddenly ill-equipped for this conversation. “Because you and Dad were always doing your own thing.”
Mom’s eyes softened. “We didn’t want to disrupt your lives,” she said. “Always pulling you and your brothers out of school just so we could travel. That would have been impractical at best, and irresponsible at worst.” When she saw the look on Lucy’s face, she laughed gently. “I do realize that sounds a bit hypocritical now, given our recent track record, but really, we just didn’t think you’d like our kinds of trips. We weren’t exactly going to Disneyland, you know.”
“I know,” Lucy said. “And we would have cramped your style.”
“Not possible,” she said, her mouth flickering briefly—the faintest hint of a smile—before she pressed her lips into a straight line, matching Lucy’s more solemn expression. She reached out and patted her hand. “But darling, I wish I’d known. I wish you would have asked to come along.”
“What?” Lucy said, lifting her eyes. “Just like that?”
Mom smiled in a way that made Lucy wonder whether they were still talking about the same thing. “Maybe,” she said, giving her hand a squeeze. “You can’t know the answer until you ask the question.”
And so she did.
A week later, on another gray Saturday morning, Dad waved good-bye from the doorway as they climbed into a black taxi. At St. Pancras station, under the enormous glass dome, they boarded a train that would take them out of London and under the English Channel, only to emerge just a few hours later into the blinding sunlight of the French countryside. When they arrived at Gare du Nord and Lucy stepped off the train, her very first thought was Finally, which had nothing to do with the length of the trip and everything to do with all the years leading up to it.
On the train, Mom had made a list of her favorite sights in Paris, and in the cab ride to the hotel, Lucy went through with a pen and crossed out half of them.
“No museums,” she said. “No tours. No lines.”
Mom raised her eyebrows. “So what then?”
“Just walking.”
“And eating, I hope.”
Lucy grinned. “And eating.”
And so they set out across the twisting streets under a mottled gray sky. Every so often, the wind shifted and the sun broke through in a dazzling column, throwing a spotlight on the city’s many landmarks so that Lucy couldn’t help feeling like it was a show being put on just for her.
It was impossible to take it all in as they wound their way through Pigalle and up toward Montmartre, the white dome of Sacré Coeur rising at the top of it. They wove through cobblestone streets on slanted hills, past little shops selling truffles and thick loaves of bread, cafés filled with people sipping their coffee as they watched the rest of the world stroll by. At the top, they leaned against a railing and looked out over all of Paris, the Eiffel Tower winking in the sun.
Later, as they made their way over to Notre Dame, Lucy’s mind wandered to Owen, as it so often did these days, and to their conversation on the roof all those months ago. On the metro, she closed her eyes and tried to picture the brass star at the foot of the great cathedral, but all she could see was a different star: the rough chalky lines on the black surface of the roof.
When they first saw the great cathedral, Lucy drew in a sharp breath and forgot to let it go. The clouds had scattered, and in the sunlight it was even more beautiful than she could have imagined, huge and imposing, yet somehow still delicate and unbelievably intricate. The huge carved arches, the spiraling windows, the leering gargoyles—she tipped her head back to take it all in, her heart pounding at the scope of it.
“You’d think it wouldn’t fee
l so big after living in New York,” Mom said quietly, squinting up at it. “Not with all those skyscrapers. But this is so much grander. It still gets me every single time.”
She rummaged through her bag for the camera, fussing with the settings before backing up a few steps to try to take in the whole thing all at once.
“Be right back,” Lucy said, picking her way around all the pigeons and the people, the benches and the trees, the lines for tours and the vendors selling guides, until she was standing in the thick of it, near the heavy doors at the entrance. Just a few feet away on the pavement, she spotted the worn bronze star, set inside an etched circle with the words Point Zero written along the edge.