Chapter Ten: Meet Me at Lake Wallenpaupack

“Our memory is like a shop in the window of which is exposed now one, now another photograph of the same person. And as a rule the most recent exhibit remains for some time the only one to be seen.” –Marcel Proust

“This is a pretty cool room,” Pam says, stopping down to look at the books on his bookshelf. Like the rest of the house, it’s clearly inhabited by guys – there are dirty dishes in the sink that look as though some new form of life is growing on them, and there aren’t candles or potpourri in the bathroom – but as she looks around, there’s not even a stray sock. He's cleaned up for me, she realizes.

Glancing at his textbooks and the college sweatshirt draped across the back of his chair, she realizes that she never really had the college experience. She’d taken classes at the county college while still living at home, and she’d taken courses over the summer in order to finish sooner. She’d completed her last semester last spring, while already living with Roy.

Jim sits on the edge of his bed, watching her. “It’s okay.” He shrugs with a nervous smile. He can’t believe she’s actually in his room.

“So you must be pretty freaked out about graduating,” she says, sitting down at his desk. There, on top of the blotter, is a sketch of her new house. Her new house with Roy. “Wow, you’ve been working really hard on this,” she notes, picking up the paper. He’s made significant changes on it since their meeting yesterday – he must have stayed up late last night working, she realizes.

There, sketched in blue colored pencil, is her house – the place she’d dreamt about since she was a little girl. Over the past four weeks, she’d met with Jim at the architectural firm where he interned, describing those dreams to him, down to the last brick. “Is your fiancé, uh, going to be involved in the design process?” he’d asked her, on the first day they’d met. “We’ll start without him,” she’d responded, not meeting his eyes. They’d started – and now they were almost finished – and Roy had never shown up to any meetings, not a single one. Pam never elaborated as to why, and Jim never spoke of it, but she’d catch him looking at her sometimes, and his eyes did plenty of asking.

He’s really talented. Her eyes roam across the page, taking in the grand front door with its semi-circle of stained glass, the bay window in the living room where Pam could imagine sitting one day with her little boy or girl, watching their first snowfall.

It’s cool, babe. Whatever you want. Just stay in the budget we talked about.

Her eyes lift to the second floor, where Jim had carefully sketched a small, circular terrace outside of the master bedroom. But now, here was something new, something she hadn’t noticed before. With infinite detail, he’d drawn several potted plants and two folding chairs, posed to face out, into the distance. And sitting in those chairs, he’d drawn two people. Technically, the people are little more than stick figures – “I’m good at buildings, not people,” he’d said – but she can instantly tell who they are. The woman, sitting on the right, is wearing a dress and a string of pearls, her curly hair half-down, a glass of wine in her hand. Next to her is a man with a mess of hair and a cartoonishly wide tie, his foot propped up on one knee in the relaxed way that had already become so familiar to her.

It’s Jim, and it’s perfect.

She suddenly feels tears burning her eyes, and she blinks them away, embarrassed. She’s holding the paper in her hands, and as she looks down she realizes her hands are trembling, leaving dark smudges on the edges of the page.

“Thank you,” she says, turning to face him. “I love it.”

He tries to play it off with a shrug, but she can see a faint blush tinge his cheeks. “I’m glad you like it. But it’s nothing special, really.”

“But it is special,” she says, taking a step towards him. “You… you really got everything right.”

“Well, I hope… Roy likes it, too. I think we’ll be able to keep everything within budget. The stained glass might go a little over, but…”

She’s reached the bed, and when she sits down, still holding the paper in her hands, he shifts uncomfortably to allow her more room. “I love it,” she repeats, and then feels a lone tear sliding down her cheek. “So I’m not sure why I’m…”

“You’re crying,” he says, reaching over to his nightstand and handing her a tissue. “You must like it, I can really tell,” he adds, trying to make her smile.

“I just… I guess it’s just sort of… overwhelming,” she manages, crumpling the tissue and stuffing it into her pocket.

“What is?”

“Seeing everything you want right in front of you, for the first time.”

Her words hang in the air, heavy.

He raises an eyebrow, as if he’s going to make another one of his trademark goofy faces that she’s gotten to know over the past month. But then his face grows serious, and he reaches across the bed and touches her arm. “Unfortunately, I know what you mean.”

Impulsively, she tops his hand with hers, letting the sketch drift to the floor, and then his mouth is on hers and they’re all fumbling fingers and muffled laughter against skin and the sounds of the party downstairs are faded, gone. His lips are on hers, his hands are on her neck, her back, yet he’s still respectful, and she’s the one who has to finally take his hands and guide them to her breasts. He’s not like Roy, he’s taller, he’s gentler, and he’s more patient, not rushing it – as if he knows this can’t last forever. In fact, she’s the one who’s unbuttoning her blouse and tugging at his belt, pulling him towards her. She knows she’s already wasted enough time.

Yet he kisses her with patience, reaches up and unfastens her barrette, cautiously pulling her hair down, so that it falls over her bare shoulders. He kisses me like he’d be perfectly happy just lying here all night, she thinks absently, knowing that she wants more, needs more – and she’s pleased to discover that he really doesn’t need that much coaxing after all.

“Your bed’s creaky,” she says, kicking her panties off, where they land in a pile next to Jim’s boxers. “They’re going to hear us and think it’s an earthquake.”

He laughs, attempting to muffle his laughter against her shoulder blade, which tickles. “Who are you kidding, Beesley? This is a 9.0.” She likes the way he says her last name, as if they’ve known each other for much longer than a month.

“Shhh. If you stop what you were just doing, you’re in serious trouble, Halpert.”

“Duly noted.”

He props himself up on the palms of his hands and touches his forehead to hers. “Pam, I’m happy… believe me, I’m happy about this, but… you’re not going to go back, are you? Back to him? Because… I think that might kill me.”

She is quiet.

“I don’t want to lose you,” he adds, his voice hoarse. He isn’t sure if she hears him until she answers.

“You won’t lose me,” she replies, her eyes teasing. “You’ll know where to find me. I’ll be in my house.” Giggling, she tangles her fingers in his hair and pulls him closer. “Don’t talk, Jim,” she whispers, begging, her breath sweet in his ear. “Please.” She pulls the quilt over both of their heads, and suddenly it’s even harder to breathe than it was before.

* * *

“So, that’s what we’ll be covering this semester,” the professor finishes, dismissing the first session of Introduction to Architecture.

Jim stuffs his syllabus into his notebook; as he does, a paper falls out, slowly drifting to the floor. He leans down to pick it up, then realizes what it is and sits in his chair as if frozen, while the rest of the class filters out. He hasn’t seen this particular paper for nearly six months – since the day he picked it up off a Brooklyn sidewalk and stuffed it into his back pocket.

It’s the picture he’d drawn, all those years ago, of Pam’s dream house. The paper is a bit wrinkled, the ink faded, but he still recognizes it.

You should be happy, he tells himself.

He should be. On paper, at least.

Hah. Paper. Seems like my whole life revolves around the stuff, he thinks, chuckling, then taking a sip of his coffee. He holds up the drawing, ignoring the pang in the center of his chest, his eyes closing in immediately on the tiny stick figures he’d drawn, so long ago. It was sort of ironic that this was the particular page that had fallen at his feet.

“You’re free to go,” the professor says, startling Jim out of his reverie. Embarrassed, Jim collects his things and shoves them into his messenger bag. “I hope I didn’t scare you with all the work we’ll be doing,” he says.

“Oh, no,” Jim replies, standing and pulling his bag over his head. In truth, three-quarters of the things the class was covering this semester, Jim was already familiar with from his internship; however, the intro class was a prerequisite to higher-level courses, so he would have to take it. “I, well, I was just thinking about this blueprint I’d worked on, a long time ago.” He shrugs. “I was thinking I might start working on it again, finish it up.”

The professor, an older man in his mid-sixties, with thinning gray hair and tortoise-shell glasses, raises an eyebrow. “I take it you’ve had some designing experience?”

“Yes. I’m Jim Halpert,” Jim replies, extending his hand. “I’d actually e-mailed you a few weeks ago, letting you know how glad I am to be here.”

“Ah. Well, it’s nice to meet you, Jim. Yes, I remember your email. You’d had the internship. Looks like you’ll have no trouble in this course, and you’ll most likely be the star student in my advanced class next fall.”

“Thanks, Professor. I appreciate that. I’ll see you next week,” he adds, raising a hand as he departs.

* * *

He loosens his tie with one hand as the other jiggles the key in the lock of his apartment. He sighs as he flicks on the lights and tosses his jacket haphazardly on the back of the couch. The apartment is too quiet, and he turns on the TV for company. He changes into a college t-shirt and sweatpants, then finds a carton of leftover Chinese food that a whiff tells him is still good, and reaches for a beer before forcing himself to pull his hand back.

He can’t believe he had zoned out that way on the first day of class. He was definitely excited to be there, and he was appreciative that Michael was letting him leave work early once a week. He likes being on a college campus – even buying his books in the bookstore was enjoyable – yet at the same time, the experience filled him with a strange sadness that that part of his life was over.

His chopsticks are in mid-air when he notices the blinking red light on his answering machine.

“Hi, Jim, it’s Michael. Just wanted to see how your first class was, m’man. It’d better be good, for all of the precious bonding time you’re missing here. Anyway, a couple of us boys are going out tomorrow night – Friiii – dayyyy – and you should come. Let’s find you a fly honey.”

Click. Deleted.

“Hi, this message is for Jim Halpert. This is Walter from Dr. Mierzwiak’s office, calling again. We haven’t heard back from you regarding those missing files…”

Click. Deleted.

It’s kind of funny, Jim thinks, once again finding his spot on the couch, how easy deleting is supposed to be.

Settling into bed, he closes his eyes, pulls the blanket over his head. Was it really so easy to throw the past away, to forget all of the painful memories while holding on to the beautiful ones?

Right before he falls asleep, he sees them, up on a roof, shivering together in the winter darkness – the lights of Scranton spread out around them. He remembers looking over at her face, radiant in the flicker of the barbecue, as they laughed. Remembers in that laughter, a hundred other memories he’d lost until this very moment. Until now, all he could remember were the times when he’d shattered everything she’d worked so carefully to hide. But he’d forgotten all the other things – shooting glances across the office, walking out together at night and wanting to just follow her home – understanding life, and each other, like no one else did. And his last thought before he finally gives in to sleep is: Even if I forgot everything else, why did I ever forget that I wanted that?

* * *

He wakes up early, before dawn, unable to sleep. This is strange, because since Karen left, he’d had much less trouble drifting off. He’d lay awake, unable to move, her leg and one of her arms thrown across his body. Without her sleeping form next to him, he didn’t have to worry about waking her up. Not to mention most of the guilt was gone now.

He blinks at the clock: 5:50. He hops into the shower, dresses for work, and gets in his car. He stops for coffee at the Quick Chek on the corner, finds something decent on the radio, and watches Dunder Mifflin in the rearview mirror as it gets farther and farther into the distance.

* * *

She realizes, finally, why she’s here. Standing on the shores of the lake, a suitcase in her hand, she understands why something had strangely compelled her to take this painfully early trip.

The house had never been finished. They had cleared and leveled the land, poured the cement foundation and begun to put up wooden beams when she’d left Roy. And with me not around, he had no desire to live in the house.

Of course, she’d come back to him. She was too terrified not to. And, after her first visit to Mierzwiak’s, when she'd first erased falling for Jim, it wasn’t as hard as it could’ve been. Yet even when they were reconciled, the house was never mentioned again, and they’d lived together in Roy’s gross little apartment since then.

The sun is beginning to peek over the tops of the trees that surround the unfinished house. Pulling her hoodie up over her head, she walks slowly up to the foundation and puts down her suitcase, which is getting heavy. She runs her fingers along the cool cement and thinks about how nice it would’ve been to have lived here. Not with Roy, though.

To her left is a pile of old bricks, which she guesses the builders must have delivered but never got the chance to use. She’d always wanted a brick front – no aluminum siding for Pamela Beesley. She bends down to pick one up, then changes her mind. Now I know where the term “ton of bricks” comes from. Who would’ve thought bricks would be so heavy. She laughs a little to herself.

This is where the bay window would’ve been, she realizes, looking up. If they had finished the house, this is where I might’ve watched the leaves fall, where I would’ve hung Christmas lights. Her eyes drift to where the front door should’ve been, where her carefully designed stained-glass window would’ve gone. And then, inevitably, she looks up to where the terrace Jim had drawn would be. Tears form in her eyes, and she blinks them away, furious at herself for coming here. This was a stupid mistake. What did you think you would do, move in?

“Um, Pam?” There’s a voice from behind her, and she whirls around so fast her knitted cap almost goes flying off her head.

“Jim? What are you doing here?” He’s standing there, oddly, wearing his business suit, his tie askew and his hair messy, a dazed expression on his face.

“I… I’m not sure, really. I just woke up this morning and got in my car and drove here. It’s not that far,” he says, as if that matters. “How… how are you?”

She manages a smile. “I’m all right.”

“I guess you were thinking about this place too,” he says, tilting his head towards the house.

“Yeah, guess I was.”

“It’s a shame, it never really got very far. Never really got a chance.”

“I know the feeling,” Pam replies, looking down. She’s not sure what else to say. She feels like she’s said it all.

Pam’s mouth drops open, but nothing comes out at first. “Y-you think so?” she asks, shocked that he’s not running away again.

“Yeah, definitely. And here,” he adds, taking several steps to the left, “maybe there could be a garden.”

“Gardens are good,” she manages. She watches, numb, as he puts his briefcase down and hands her the coffee he’s been holding, which she accepts gratefully, gripping it with both hands.

“You’d be good at keeping one.”

“Thanks.”

“You know, Pam…” his voice falters, and he tugs anxiously at his tie. “I’m sorry about what happened in New York.”

“It’s okay,” she says, still half-expecting him to run off. “You were scared.”

“But you were right. About a lot of things. And I… we clearly can’t erase each other, or even get away from each other,” he says. “I mean, sure, we both screwed up, we both hurt each other, but that’s what people do. If everyone ran around erasing everything that hurt, they might never learn from it, you know?” With every word, the quicker he’s speaking, the closer he’s stepping towards her, and the more rapidly his heart pounds.

“Yes,” she says, her eyes scanning his face, a lone tear spilling over her lashes.

He reaches out and presses his palm to her cold cheek, sending electrical sparks right through her. “But maybe we have learned from it, Pam. I still don’t remember everything, but I remember more of the good things now. I just remember that I loved even the possibility of you.”

She doesn’t say anything, just keeps looking at him.

“Look, I know that we tried to figure everything out before, and things just went all wrong… but maybe this time would be different.”

It seems like forever before she answers. “Maybe it would be.”

* * *

“Dr. Mierzwiak, your next appointments are here.”

“Thank you, Walter, give me five minutes and you can send them in.”

Sitting next to him on the couch, she looks over hesitantly, crossing one high-heeled foot over the other.

“God, I really hope this works,” she says, paging impatiently through one of the outdated magazines on Mierzwiak’s table.

“Why wouldn’t it?” he asks, pulling his baseball cap down over his eyes. “Believe me, I’ve always thought you were hot. And once this is taken care of… we’ll meet back on the corner and get a cup of coffee. And we’ll take it from there,” he adds, winking at her. When Jim had winked at her, she’d found it strangely irritating, but when he did… it definitely had the opposite effect.

“Okay,” she says, biting her lower lip worriedly. He’s right. They’d found each other attractive from the start, but… outside circumstances prevented anything else from developing. And Jim and Pam were definitely out of the picture now, so there was really no reason for either of them to continue going around all miserable and alone, was there? “You’re right. Let’s do this.”

Walter peeks his head into the waiting room. “Mr. Anderson? Ms. Fillipelli? Dr. Mierzwiak will see you now.”

* * *