Alix Ohlin - Inside

The doctor came in and said cheerfully, “Little crowded in here!” She looked about Anne’s age, a crunchy type with a pencil in her hair, wearing clogs.

“Can we all stay?” Anne said.

“Why don’t we ask the pregnant lady?” the doctor said. Hilary nodded her assent. “Okay, then! Let’s get started.”

It was the kind of place where they didn’t scold you for not having come in sooner; they were more about making sure you came back. So Hilary was lavished with praise for being so healthy, for making the appointment, practically for brushing her teeth and eating ice cream. She didn’t say much in response, just submitted to the examination with her legs open and her eyes focused on a spot on the wall. The doctor peeled off her latex gloves with an audible snap and said, “Looks great!” and then set up the ultrasound. And there it was, a black-and-white shadow puppet swimming in its dark pool. “Organs look good. Fingers and toes all there,” the doctor reported. “Do you want to know the sex of the baby?”

“Yes,” Hilary said.

“It’s a little girl.”

Anne, who was still gazing at the screen, heard a strange sound and saw that Hilary was crying. “I wanted a girl,” she said.

That night, there was an appreciative crowd at the small theater in Long Island City, holding its breath, taut with attention. Anne’s dialogue and gestures had by now become a part of her, as deep in her body as her muscles and bones. She had moved beyond conscious thought, beyond having to remember lines, toward a state of pure energy and flow. She was Mariska, and there was no boundary between where she left off and her character began. It didn’t feel like acting, more like being . It was the happiest she’d ever felt, those two hours in front of the audience, but after it was over she was deflated. It was like having a dream about flying that seems so true and possible, then waking up to understand it wasn’t real and never would be.

The subway trip home was long, but she didn’t want to waste money on cabs or car services. She had started saving money for the baby, wanting to give her something she could rely on later, when and if other people let her down. Back at the apartment, she undressed in the dark with a minimum of noise or fuss and crawled between blankets on the couch. The place smelled of leftover pizza. She sighed. Sometime soon this phase would be over, and she would understand what it was all about, how Hilary and Alan fit into the story of her life.

Lying there strangely keyed up, she heard a moaning sound and sat up to listen. Another moan, the bed creaking, Alan making a choking sound. She squashed the pillow over her head, trying not to hear them, the runaways, the interlopers, the children about to become parents. Making love in her bed.

A month passed, and the summer grew brutal and steaming. Anne’s play closed and she was temping again, trying to put aside more money. Out of all the offers that had coursed around her during the run of the play, only a few had distilled to anything concrete. She picked the one with a well-regarded experimental director whose trademark was deadpan dialogue and sacklike clothing, the actors’ bodies virtually irrelevant in his productions. She hoped the play would stretch her capacities and prove her artistic mettle. So she stood on stage in scratchy burlap and muttered lines she didn’t understand to an audience of bored hipsters in a church basement. Without her body to work with, she had no idea what to do. Too afraid to admit she didn’t understand the aesthetic agenda, she bumbled her part, alienated the director, and got terrible reviews. Just like that, she felt like she was back to where she started.

“You’re a pretty girl,” the agent she had decided on said over a drink. “Let me get you into commercials. There’s a detergent call that would be perfect for you.”

“I don’t want to do commercials,” Anne told her.

The agent shrugged. “I guess I can try for Law & Order .”

“Okay, but I also want something serious. Something important.”

The agent raised her eyebrows. “You’re a pretty girl,” she repeated. “Work with your strengths.”

A week later, the agent called to say she’d gotten her into summer theater in Southampton. “It isn’t Williamstown, but you can hit the beach.”

The play was okay. The people who came to see it were a little buzzed, on vacation, ready to be entertained, complimenting Anne extravagantly and buying her drinks afterward in the bar. She had rented a room from a group of hard-partying young lawyers and slept wearing earplugs. Early in the mornings she ran on the beach and saw herself, in these moments, as if from a great distance: a beautiful young woman, hair streaming behind her, the Atlantic crashing its gentle, gray waves. She enjoyed imagining herself like this, from the point of view of some infinitely knowledgeable and enamored stranger, someone who could tell even from afar just how special she was.

On a sweltering Sunday afternoon in July she returned to the city and found the apartment surprisingly cool; air-conditioning units had been installed in both rooms. The shades were drawn and the lights were off. “Hello?” she said, dropping her bags. “You guys home?”

No one was in the bedroom, and the food in the refrigerator was spoiling. There was an air of dust and abandonment that somehow felt new.

Then a key turned in the lock, and a middle-aged man she’d never seen before walked in.

“Get out of here,” she said instinctively. “I’m calling the police.”

Holding his hands up in deference, he looked afraid, even though he was well built and no doubt stronger than she was. He was wearing khaki pants and a short-sleeved plaid shirt. “Hey, now,” he said. “You must be Anne.”

“Who are you?”

“I’m Ned Halverson.” He paused, apparently expecting some reaction, then exhaled and lowered his hands. “Hilary’s uncle.”

Anne frowned. Hilary’s last name was Benson; she’d never mentioned an uncle. “Where is she?”

The man sighed. “Do you mind if I sit down for a second?” he said. “Those stairs just about kill me, in this heat.”

He moved to the couch, where she noticed a small brown suitcase on the floor and a folded set of sheets on the cushions. He sat with his hands on his knees, back perfectly straight, a military pose. Then, reaching into his rear pocket, he pulled out a handkerchief and wiped off his forehead.

“Hilary told me about everything you’ve done for her,” he said. “I mean to say, she didn’t. She always makes out like she did it all herself, but it’s clear to me that you’ve done a lot. Letting her stay here. And then Alan.” From the way he said his name, it was obvious there was no love lost between them.

“Where are they?” Anne said.

Halverson raised an eyebrow. “She was supposed to leave you a note,” he said, “but she didn’t, did she? That girl was never any too good at following instructions.”

Anne glanced around. “I just got here,” she said.

Halverson seemed perfectly at ease on the couch and uninterested in clearing up her confusion. She walked over to the kitchen counter, then glanced into the bedroom, which was unusually tidy and free of clutter. The bed was made. Somehow this seemed more ominous than anything else.

Back in the living room, she said, “No note. Why don’t you tell me what’s going on? Did you make Hilary go home?”

“Well, now, of course I did,” he said. “My wife took them straight away, and I’m here for the rest of their things. I’m sure you understand. We been worried sick to death. She’s just a kid herself, you know. We can take care of her, and once the baby comes …” He spread his hands out wide. With his ramrod posture and slow, deliberate delivery, the gesture reminded her of the old men who practiced tai chi in Tompkins Square Park. Anne couldn’t quite grasp what he was saying but felt irritated, then enraged, that circumstances had changed without her consent. There must have been plenty of drama — Hilary never would have left willingly — and she had missed all of it. If she had been here, would things have been different? Would they have fought harder to stay?