Nobody, Somebody, Anybody

A Novel

Kelly McClorey

• Publisher: Ecco
• Year: 2021
• Print ISBN:
  9780063002661
• eBook ISBN:
  9780063002678
• Topic: Literature
• Subtopic: Literature General
• Index: Literature

"It's  My Year of Rest and Relaxation, but with fewer pills and more boats." — Entertainment Weekly

A moving and darkly comic debut novel about an anxious young woman who administers a self-made "placebo" treatment in a last-ditch attempt to rebuild her life

Amy Hanley has a job as a maid for the summer, but on August 25, she will take the exam to become an EMT (third time's the charm!) and finally move on with her life. In the meantime, she doesn't mind scrubbing toilets immaculately clean or tucking the sheet corners just so. In fact, she tells herself that her work is a noble act of service to the rich guests at the yacht club.

Amy's profound isolation colors everything: her job, her aspirations, even her interactions with the woman at the deli counter. And as the date for the EMT exam comes closer, Amy's anxiety ratchets up in a way that is both familiar and troubling. In desperation, she concocts a "placebo" program—a self-prescribed regimen for her confidence, devised to trick herself into succeeding.

When her landlord, Gary, starts to invite her over for dinner—to practice his cooking skills as he awaits approval of his Ukrainian fiancé's visa—Amy makes her first friend since her mother's passing. Alongside this unexpected connection comes a surge of hopeful obsession that Amy knows she must reckon with before the summer's end.

Tender and laugh-out-loud funny, Nobody, Somebody, Anybody explores the shadowy corners of a young woman's inner world of grief, delusion, and self-loathing, revealing the creeping loneliness of modern life and our endless search for connection. Kelly McClorey captures the hilarity and heartbreak of American ambition.

Eleven

I wiped the bedposts in room 9, my rag going up and down and up again, losing track of which post I’d started with and whether I’d already completed all four posts and, if so, how many times. Despite having slept through Sunday and as many hours as possible on Monday and Tuesday, I was in a heavy fog and planned to stay that way, depriving my brain of even the mildest pleasure or stimulation. I wished I could tear open my skull and flush it out with bleach and felt it was an injustice that I couldn’t—why shouldn’t people be allowed some say over what goes on in their own skulls? The room went dim. I figured it was my imagination acting up, trying to get a rise out of me. Then I looked out the window and discovered the sun missing. Fat clouds had trundled in, and the ocean was churning. Wind began to blow raw against the glass. I watched waves hack at the sides of the boats and people dart in and out of the tiny house at the tip of the T-shaped dock. The room fell quiet and still. There was a rumble of thunder, and when a splintering noise followed, the earth blinked and I felt a release. A storm—it was so perfectly fitting I felt I must have manifested it, just by the force of my own violent mood.

Doug’s voice came booming in from the hallway. He was singing to the tune of an old hot-dog commercial:

Oh, I wish I were an internal auditor

That is what I truly wish to be

’Cause if I were an internal auditor

Everyone would be in love with me

Oh, everyone would be in love with me.

He was constantly coming up with new versions of this song. He didn’t often come up on the hotel floor, and his singing grew louder and louder, and then the door to room 9 swung open. “Time to batten down the hatches, eh? Just making sure we’re all sealed up.” He knocked twice on the door frame.

Thunder cracked, louder this time, drawing us both toward the shuddering window. We stood side by side, watching. The anticipation made me feel off-kilter. A rod of lightning skewered the clouds and finally the rain fell, thin and distinct at first, in bullets that burst when they hit the surface of the ocean. Then came a surge like a giant exhale and the rain crashed down, blending the sky and the ocean into one big gray stew. “And we like to think we’re the ones in control,” he whispered. “Kind of puts it all into perspective, doesn’t it?”

I murmured in agreement. I felt exposed, imagining that all my vengeful urges and inconsolable thoughts had escaped from inside me to set this storm in motion, and any moment now he would recognize my role in it.

“A good storm always gets me thinking about the old days,” Doug said. “Can you imagine? A bunch of guys stranded out there on a ship, running around like mad while the captain barks orders. Not knowing what the hell is going on or how long it will last. Just that some god is mighty angry.”

“Yeah, they used to think everything came from the gods. Even diseases,” I said, discovering how glad I was for conversation (how long had it been? days, not since the ride with Gary) and how ridiculous I’d been: attributing a storm to my own mood was even more absurd than attributing it to a god—how egotistical I could be! “Hippocrates was the first one to challenge it.”

“Nowadays we’ve got radar and satellites, you can track all of it, wind, moisture, pressure. Sure, you can still get caught unawares, but it’s not the same. Call me crazy, but sometimes I want to know how it felt—out in the middle of the Atlantic, no radio, no Coast Guard. Just you and your brothers fighting to stay one step ahead.”

Wind lashed the flags down on the flagpole. Lightning spiked, and we both flinched. “I can see what you mean,” I said. “But probably most of them died. People were always dying of things that could easily have been prevented. Like scurvy. Thousands, millions, of sailors died from scurvy before they finally figured out it was just a simple vitamin C deficiency.”

“How’d they find out?”

“A controlled trial. A doctor divided all the sailors with scurvy into groups. One was assigned to eat oranges and lemons. And they were lucky, because the others were assigned vinegar or seawater or even vitriol, which is what they used to call sulfuric acid. He published the results, but people ignored it at first, like a lot of important discoveries.”

I could feel Doug studying the side of my face. “Your parents must’ve done something right,” he said. “I don’t get it. My kids won’t even pick up a book. They’re only interested in whatever it is they’ve got on their phones. My daughter’s the worst.”

For a moment I was flushed with the warm, pleasant sensation that comes with flattery. Then I remembered my life. The conscionable thing would be to tell Doug not to worry, his kids were better off, and not to waste his admiration, because this was the extent of me, the only answers I had and they’d brought me nothing and taken me nowhere, I couldn’t even make it through a simple trip to Cape Cod.

“Anyway, I should be thanking the gods that the cruise isn’t set to leave today.” He hitched his pants and headed for the door. “This should mean an end to the heat, I hope. Now I can get back on my exercise routine. Ha.” He palmed the swell of his stomach and dipped out of the room. He started singing again, a new version this time—“Oh, I wish I were an iPhone app-li-cation, That is what I truly wish to be”—his voice accompanied by the gusts and cracks outside, the relentless volley of rain.

When I’d finished for the day, I posted myself at a window in a vacant room. I wanted to avoid Roula, and everyone, to move invisibly from here to somewhere else, somewhere far, far away, where I could sleep away the hours. What I would have given to have plans with Gary tonight! To know that at this moment he was in his kitchen counting out tablespoons or preheating the oven in anticipation of my arrival. But we didn’t have plans; we might never have plans again. How could I have been so reckless? Letting my foolish reveries endanger everything we’d built. For this recklessness I deserved to be punished, yes, but not permanently. Even though Gary had acted brutally in the heat of the moment, he was a reasonable person, or could be, when he had me to guide him, but even without me, if given enough time, reason should eventually prevail. In the meantime, I would make it like I didn’t exist. If I could continue to avoid him, he wouldn’t have a chance to double down on the things he’d said, and I wouldn’t have to witness the way my presence grated on him. And then, after a week or two of not seeing me, of suffering through dreary, flavorless Hungry Man dinners during which a pleasant memory of me would naturally arise, he might soften a bit, start to forget what a maniac I’d turned out to be, and even miss me a little. It might be a long shot, but it was all I had.

The rain slackened and the clouds began to wither, letting spots of muddy light filter through. From the window I saw Roula emerge then disappear under the bowl of an umbrella. I waited for the umbrella to cross the parking lot, my jaw tight, before retrieving my things from the closet. Just as I’d begun my wearisome descent down the stairs, I heard “Hey” behind me—it shot like a blade into the back of my neck. My legs went stiff. I couldn’t handle one more thing, especially the pigeon-toed waiter.

He was drying his hands on the front of his apron. “You’re on your way out, sorry.” His skin looked mildly irritated, as though he’d just blown his nose. “I wasn’t sure it was you at first—did you cut your hair? Looks nice. Anyway, I just thought I’d see if you wanted to come to a party. Tonight, at my house. My parents are away all week.”

“Your parents?”

“We have a pool, too bad the weather’s crap. Looks like it’s starting to clear up, though. It’ll be a bunch of people from here and from school. It’ll be a good time.”

“I’m probably ten years older than you.”

“Age is just a number,” he said, smirking.

“Look, if you need someone to buy alcohol for you, you can just ask.”

“No, no, that’s all taken care of. I’d really like you to come. I think you’d have fun. But if you already have plans or something, no big deal. Here, let me give you my address, in case.” He patted his apron and back pockets. “I must’ve left my pad in the kitchen.” He looked back at the kitchen door. “Here, I can just write it on your hand,” he said, uncapping a pen. He stepped closer and used his other hand to keep mine steady while he wrote. I was too depleted to resist. He smelled like seafood and steam from the dishwasher. “My name’s Jeremy, by the way. I’m not sure if you ever knew that. You’re Amy, I remember.” Our eyes met briefly before I turned to go. “Any time after eight!” he called out behind me.

* * *

The lightning was just a scribble in the distance now. I made no effort to rush or cover my head; I enjoyed the cool taps of rain, particularly when they surprised me in the eye. The tide was out, the exposed beach dirty and deserted but for one lone figure tracking the sand with a metal detector. There were no people on the street, no sounds but the weather and the slow march of my feet. The sidewalk appeared to be moving, twitching in response to every needle of rain. It was littered with debris that had shaken loose from the trees. When I reached for a berry on Magnolia Drive, my foot slipped on a pine cone and it spun off, jeering at me. I cornered it with my shoe, cracked its ribs.

Through the gray drizzle I noticed him, the same homeless man from before. He was sitting outside an orthodontist’s office, a soggy cardboard sign propped on his chest. I paused in front of him. “Adapt or die,” I read. “Do you really think it’s that simple?” I figured a free ice cream had earned me at least a shred of civility.

“You smell like chemicals,” he snarled. “You work for the government. Don’t try to lie.” I bolted away while he shouted, “Watch out! She’s radioactive. Don’t let her lie!”

Once I’d turned the corner, I stopped under a tree and sniffed my shirt and hands. The chemical fumes of cleaning products did linger there, but only faintly. I turned my hand over. Jeremy’s message was smudged but still readable: “21 Sargent St.” I knew that house; it had a particularly grand fence. Under that he’d drawn a stupid little smiley face with an extra line so it looked like its tongue was sticking out. Age is just a number—how original!

I’d been meandering for a good hour or more when I came upon the supermarket where the deli workers used to know my name. I dodged inside and paced the perimeter of the deli, trying to scout who was behind the counter. It was her—the woman with the mustache who had once been my favorite before she’d insulted me. She yawned into her hand. When she turned to get something behind her, I saw she had sprouted a belly—in fact, she was extremely pregnant. She rocked on her feet, flaunting the ugly eggish shape of it, her apron straining to hold it in. The sight of it turned me bitter and spiteful. I gave up hiding and strutted right by, close enough to feel the puff of air blowing from the vent at the bottom of the display case.

“Oh,” she said. “Did you want to hear the specials? We’ve got a nice hot Spanish salami today, and a slow-roasted pork—”

My hand in the air signaled her to stop. “Actually, I’m on my way to a party. Thanks anyway.” I didn’t look back to see her reaction, but my own words kept chirping in my ears, making my face hot—what did she care about me and whether or not I was going to a party? And a high school party at that!

I entered the liquor store next door. I perused the rum selection, then thought better of it—they were young, and rum might be more than they could handle; I didn’t want to be responsible for any accidents. I waded through rows of wine bottles wearing stylish, mysterious labels and came to the refrigerator section, finally tugging a cheap bottle of champagne out by the neck.

“Celebrating something special?” the clerk asked as she beeped the sticker.

“I just passed the EMT exam,” I said, partly out of habit and partly as a trial—to see how it would feel, whether anything could be salvaged. It felt as arbitrary as if I’d claimed to have passed the bar or a kidney stone.

“Oh, congrats. My sister’s a CNA. She’s constantly telling me to switch my shift so I can take night classes like she did. She’s always got the answer, even when you didn’t ask the question. Especially then.”

“I hope she respects her calling. Not everyone is suited for it.”

“Me, I get squeamish around blood.”

* * *

The storm had boiled the heat off, and I wished for a light jacket or at least a change of clothes and a shower. I passed a lonesome bench and considered abandoning my sad pilgrimage so I could warm its lap and enjoy the bottle in peace. But I’d only end up terrorizing myself, replaying what had happened on the car ride home and envisioning all the nightmarish things that could still happen, and then I might be tempted to seek out Gary before he’d had proper time to stew. So why not go to the party and distract myself, what did I have left to lose?

He’d taped a note to the front door with tiny letters that said “Come around back.” At the towering fence, I heard voices and got the urge to bulldoze right through and melt into the crowd, take on the form of them. Jeremy’s parents had dressed the outside of the fence in old fishing rope and strung up an assortment of buoys the shape and color of Popsicles, reds and yellows and blues. The latch on the gate was loose. Soft light winked through the crack, and I put my eye to it. Kids—they were kids—pumped beer from a keg and arced Ping-Pong balls toward pyramids of disposable cups. A girl ...

Table of contents

• Cover
• Title Page
• Dedication
• Contents
• One
• Two
• Three
• Four
• Five
• Six
• Seven
• Eight
• Nine
• Ten
• Eleven
• Twelve
• Thirteen
• Acknowledgments
• About the Author
• Copyright
• About the Publisher