Wait, p.1
Wait, page 1
By Gabriella Burnham
It Is Wood, It Is Stone
Wait
Wait is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2024 by Gabriella Burnham
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by One World, an imprint of Random House, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, New York.
One World and colophon are registered trademarks of Penguin Random House LLC.
Grateful acknowledgment is made to Penguin Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC, for permission to reprint an excerpt from “The River” from Dream Work by Mary Oliver, copyright © 1986 by NW Orchard LLC. Used by permission of Penguin Books, an imprint of Penguin Publishing Group, a division of Penguin Random House LLC.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: Burnham, Gabriella, author.
Title: Wait: a novel / by Gabriella Burnham.
Description: First Edition. | New York: One World, 2024.
Identifiers: LCCN 2023033500 (print) | LCCN 2023033501 (ebook) | ISBN 9780593596500 (Hardback) | ISBN 9780593596517 (Ebook)
Subjects: LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS3602.U76377 W35 2024 (print) | LCC PS3602.U76377 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6—dc23/eng/20230724
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023033500
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2023033501
Ebook ISBN 9780593596517
oneworldlit.com
randomhousebooks.com
Book design by Ralph Fowler, adapted for ebook
Lighthouse illustration by Gerilya/Adobe Stock
Cover design: Jaya Miceli
Cover images: Oleg Albinsky/Getty Images (house); Bob Sacha/Getty Images, Avgust Avgustus/Shutterstock, Natali Arkusha/Shutterstock (beach); Tigerstrawberry/Getty Images (birds)
ep_prh_7.0_147003908_c0_r0
Contents
Dedication
Epigraph
Part I: Home
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Part II: The Guest
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part III: The Main House
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Acknowledgments
About the Author
_147003908_
For my mother
Home, I said.
In every language there is a word for it.
Deep in the body itself, climbing
those white walls of thunder, past those green
temples there is also
a word for it.
I said, home.
—Mary Oliver
The difficulty with waiting, Rosalie thought, is that one can rarely wait in absolute stillness.
—Yiyun Li
Part I
Home
Elise sits cross-legged on the dorm room floor, absently twirling a sheepskin rug as she watches Sheba dress for the party. A window on the far wall has been propped open with a textbook; the night’s tranquil air eases into the room. Sheba searches through a heap of hangered clothes on her bed and pulls out a slinky shift dress that resembles the one Elise is already wearing—black, spaghetti straps, a neckline that drapes like molasses. She slips the hanger over her head and pins the fabric to her hipbone. Yes, no doubt, go with that one, Elise tells her. The identical dress she has on is borrowed from Sheba anyway.
I can’t stay out late tonight, Sheba says. Like, physically speaking, I cannot. My body will revolt.
Will I know anyone there? Elise asks, sipping from a plastic goblet. They’re going to a party for a friend of Sheba’s from Dalton. Sheba said she had to go for convoluted social reasons that were lost on Elise.
Me, I’ll be there, Sheba says, batting her eyes through the vanity mirror.
It’s the night before graduation and Elise’s mother, Gilda, and her sister, Sophie, are traveling from their home on Nantucket Island to attend the ceremony tomorrow. They planned to take a 6:30 a.m. ferry, then rent a car and drive thirteen hours from Cape Cod to Chapel Hill. Elise tilts her phone to see if they have texted her back. The screen illuminates, revealing a thread of unanswered blue bubbles. Have you passed through Baltimore yet? Elise wrote to her mother at ten a.m. It’s the first time they’re coming to visit her on campus. At two p.m.: Did you stop for lunch or are you eating gas station food? At five p.m.: I’m worried if you drive straight here you’re going to be exhausted at graduation. She thumbs over to Sophie’s text message box and types: Hi. Where are you? Mom isn’t answering.
She wedges the phone into her wristlet and retrieves a drugstore eyeshadow compact from the side pocket.
Oh, can I use that too? Sheba asks. Elise wipes her ring finger on the underside of the rug and passes the compact to Sheba.
Sheba swabs the lilac shadow into her lid creases. Is your family close? she says.
Elise presses her chin into her shoulder and massages the bone. Yeah. They should be here by morning.
After drinking four proseccos mixed with Chambord and ice, Sheba requests a car at the dormitory pickup point. When they arrive at the party close to midnight, Sheba doesn’t say hello to anyone and immediately finds a clearing in front of the audio system. The woman whose music is plugged into the speakers wears a round, fuzzy hat and has a thin blunt tucked behind her ear. She plays the entirety of Robyn’s album Honey, followed by Frank Ocean and LCD Soundsystem, in glittering, psychedelic succession. Sheba places a hand on Elise’s collarbone and snakes her torso to the music. Elise mirrors her moves, mesmerized by the copied dresses skimming at their thighs. She offers Sheba a finger, coyly, as if to beckon, and Sheba closes her lips around it, which startles Elise, the balmy inside of Sheba’s mouth. The pad of her finger touches the hard ridge on her palate and the fleshy bumps on her tongue. Surely her finger must taste bitter, like sweat and vanilla moisturizer? But Sheba cackles and so Elise plays it off too. She spins and brushes the saliva onto her forearm, leaving a wet, chilly trail. The strap of her dress falls down her shoulder and she lets it hang there: a dare. It feels good for Elise to feel like Sheba, for Sheba to feel like Elise. They’ve enmeshed so intimately, they see themselves in another person who shares no resemblance, no common history, not even many interests. Sheba, the Heiress, with an attractively large mouth, milk-white skin, and dandelion-seed hair. Elise, the Child of Immigrants, with a soft, easy body and a complexion the color of oversteeped chamomile tea.
Elise returns to her dorm room around three a.m. after eating a cup of mashed potatoes. Sophie tried to call her earlier in the night, but Elise’s phone died while they were at the party. She kicks off her ballet flats and falls asleep belly down, a blot of cherry gloss smeared across her pillowcase. She wakes at nine a.m., Graduation Day, and plugs in her phone. Instantly, Sophie’s name lights up on the screen.
Are you here? Elise answers, rubbing her forehead. I just woke up.
Elise, I’ve been trying you all night, Sophie says.
What’s going on? My phone was dead.
I can’t find Mom.
She sounds hurried and a little hoarse.
Where are you? Elise sits up, bracing her shoulders against the wall.
I’m still on Nantucket, Sophie says. She never came to the boat.
Elise pauses, trying to assess whether or not she’s joking.
Very funny, she says, and peeks over the windowsill at a girl in a blue baseball cap. Ha ha. There you are. I can see you prancing around the parking lot.
Sophie’s breath scratches against the receiver.
I’m not kidding, Elise. I’m still on island.
Elise reaches for a water bottle on her bedside table and takes a hard sip.
Sophie—my graduation is in two hours. Have you tried calling the restaurant?
They haven’t seen her, Sophie responds. The pitch in her voice rises. She didn’t go to work yesterday because we were supposed to drive to see you.
When was the last time you talked to her?
The night before last. She told me she’d meet me at the ferry in the morning. She had to do some prep work in the kitchen before we left. So I waited and waited for her by the docks. Our boat left, and then the next one left. After a while I called Mr. Wagner and asked for a ride, thinking maybe she’d gone home.
Why didn’t you call me sooner?
I did call, last night! You weren’t answering
Elise drops the phone against her chest.
I’m not blaming you, she says into the speaker.
They are silent for a long time. Elise kicks off the covers and pulls Sheba’s dress over her head. She wouldn’t be shocked to learn her mother had panicked last minute and decided she couldn’t come. Except that she had been animated about the graduation for weeks; she had said she wanted to pack homemade beijinhos and pão de queijo—Elise’s favorite—and she kept sending her photographs of a stuffed bear wearing a cap and gown. Elise presses her thumb into her temple.
Let me call you back, she tells Sophie, and they hang up.
She tosses her phone to the bottom of the bed, holds the water bottle above her face, braces herself, and pours a trickle onto her forehead. The cold lingers on her cheeks, drips into her mouth. She had heard stories about twins, miles apart, one waking in the night if the other twin was hurt, the alarm transferred between their bodies. What did it mean that she hadn’t sensed that her younger sister had been calling her throughout the night, trying to reach her?
Elise wraps a bath towel around her body and palms the hallway walls down to Sheba’s room, enters the security code, and curls up on the sheepskin rug. Sheba shifts in her bed.
Are you dying of a hangover? she says, squinting.
Elise shakes her head. Sheba pushes the curtain open an inch, letting in a strip of sunlight.
Did you shower already?
Elise flicks a drip of water off her chin.
Sophie called. She can’t find our mom.
Sheba tosses her duvet aside and crawls onto the floor. They hook arms while Elise explains to her what happened. Sophie waited. Not at work, not at home. A boat left, then another. Do you have any idea where she could be? Sheba asks. Elise takes a deep breath and says: I don’t. My mom’s good at hiding.
She confesses to Sheba that she only has eighty-six dollars in her bank account. Sheba reaches under her bed for her laptop and opens up an internet browser.
What do you need? Sheba says. A plane ticket?
Elise trains her eyes on her lap, not wanting to ask. Sheba goes ahead and purchases the next available flight from Chapel Hill to Boston. From there, Elise will board a Peter Pan bus to the coast, where a ferry will deposit her back on Nantucket, her childhood home, for the first time in four years.
Are you still coming to graduation today? Sheba asks, though she knows Elise can’t. Her voice sounds suddenly fragile. She closes her laptop and places her palm over Elise’s knee.
I need to pack and get to the airport, Elise says.
I’ll come with you. I don’t want to graduate alone.
Your whole family is here, Sheb. Elise’s throat clenches. You can’t leave.
My family is unbearable. Sheba lowers her head. Just stay a little longer. For me?
Elise smiles, then covers her face with the crook of her arm.
Take lots of pictures. I’ll photoshop myself in later.
Fuck, Sheba says. She presses her hands against her stomach. This is heavy.
Elise feels it too—her ribs, a slab of concrete.
Outside on the ferry’s deck, Elise huddles on a pockmarked metal bench next to a puddle of stagnant saltwater spray. The air smells strongly of seaweed and gasoline and the ferry’s rumbling engine drowns out the plash of waves against the hull. She searches the clusters of twentysomethings in fleece vests and regatta hats, trying to find a local she might recognize, someone she grew up with, but all she sees are summer people. A few take selfies together with small, curly-haired dogs, posing against the passing harbor view. One woman wearing a waxed hunting jacket hurls a coin over the banister into the ocean, instructing her boyfriend to make a wish. As the ferry picks up speed and the wind whips blond strands into her mouth, she gathers her dog and retreats inside. Elise considers if she should move inside too, except she can’t stomach the smell of boiled hot dogs, the same ones they’ve sold since she was a child. Boiled hot dogs, subs wrapped in cellophane, beer on tap, and cartons of orange juice. She watches as the other passengers pile into booth seats torn down the middle, as brazen and ragged as unstitched scars.
An hour into the ride, only Elise and an older man with a frizzle of white hair remain on the deck. They have reached the point of their journey where there’s no land in sight, the ocean a sheet of water adjoined to the open horizon. The man crouches into a corner to light a cigarette, smoke billowing from underneath his armpits. Elise approaches and asks if he has one to spare. At first he doesn’t hear her over the engine thrum, so she has to repeat herself, louder: A cigarette, can I have one? She places the filter between her lips as he cups his hands and strikes the flint, the smoke barely hovering before the wind churns it away. Elise leans her belly against the handrail and awakens her phone screen. A new text to her mother is already open, the message drafted and poised.
Elise: Are you there?
She presses send, but a red error mark appears. Scrolling up, she counts the number of messages (Are you there?) that have gone unsent (sixteen) and returns the phone to her pocket.
The day before Gilda and Sophie were supposed to leave for Elise’s graduation, Gilda called Elise in a flustered state, upset over their aunt Beth’s favorite dog, Clinton, who escaped through the front gate and was hit by a car.
Soon you’ll get to see my dorm room, Elise interjected an hour into the phone call, trying to redirect the conversation.
The dog was named after Bill Clinton, Gilda continued, which somehow made it sadder for her.
Elise felt silly insisting that her graduation ceremony was a more pressing topic than Clinton’s demise, but she couldn’t get her mother to concentrate on anything else. Elise has never even met her aunt Beth; she can’t picture the road lined with gold medallion trees in Atibaia where she lives. Only recently have Elise and Sophie discussed the possibility of saving money to buy tickets to Brazil to meet their mother’s family, their family, for the first time.
Elise taps the cigarette, ashes scattering into the crested waves. Her gut aches whenever she imagines stepping foot in Gilda’s homeland when her mother can’t leave the country, replaying a loop of seasons that turn on and off. Gilda once spent three consecutive years on Nantucket without leaving the island once, through bitter, desolate winters, biding time for another chance at summer income. Then one day in the spring, she escaped on an early morning ferry and didn’t return for days. They learned she had slept in a sleeping bag on the beach in Barnstable, only to wake up and stroll around the shopping mall, free of the worry of being recognized.
Hey! Elise hears a ferry worker shout from across the deck. No smoking! She apologizes, tamps out the butt on the heel of her shoe, and places it in a trash can. When the ship’s bow knocks against the wharf, Elise gathers her bag and joins the long line to disembark. Swarms of passengers in pastels and florals flood the parking lot, flummoxed by the rows of self-service trolley carts filled with luggage. She looks for their next-door neighbor, Mr. Wagner, who offered to pick her up from the boat. He’s reading a newspaper in his cherry-red F-150 truck as his dog, an American Eskimo named Suzie, frantically tries to fit her snout through the cracked car window. She waves and hoists herself into the passenger seat as he places her suitcase into the truck bed.
Did you learn a lot in college? Mr. Wagner asks, turning onto the road. Suzie is balanced on Elise’s lap, the dog’s paws digging into her thighs. She’s never had a one-on-one conversation with Mr. Wagner before. All she really knows about him is he works for the Department of Sanitation, and once, when a sewage line burst, sending gallons of feces into the harbor, he made the front page of the local newspaper.
