by R. J. Jacobs
It sounded completely unfamiliar. Drugs? Did he mean the ADHD medication?
“I take one medication,” I said. “Sometimes a second. But I don’t do drugs.” Yet I came off sounding defensive.
Cal’s eyes narrowed like he was watching a highlight reel of fielding errors in his mind. “He was exhausted. All the time. He started showing up late to everything after you two met.”
“Cal, he was always late, to everything. He worked sixty-five hours a week.”
Cal shrugged, threw another dart. “He came to games drunk.”
I frowned. I knew the one time he was talking about. Paolo and I had spent the afternoon on a blanket, surrounded by the emerging green buds of spring. It was his first time off in a week—and I’d opened a bottle of wine. “That was one time, Cal. And I wouldn’t have called that drunk.”
He gestured like he was letting go of something. “Either way.”
“Either way, what?” I stepped forward again.
“In the two months before he died, he no-showed me I don’t know how many times. That wasn’t him. Something was up, so I called him on it. Know what he said? He said he was taking care of you.”
It felt like he’d slapped me. Olivia emerged from the bathroom then and took another sip from her water glass. She looked at us quizzically, set the glass on the counter, and resumed playing with Andy on the floor. Cal and I instinctively stepped into the living room.
I must have looked as baffled as I felt. “Um, what?” I began. “Taking care of me?”
He sighed. “I just don’t believe that the smartest, most ambitious person I knew—a guy who grew up around water—would just randomly … without something chemical”—he paused, then expelled the word he’d been avoiding—“drown. It doesn’t sound like the guy I knew. And I’m sorry. Really. I know you’ve been through a lot, and I actually really didn’t want to ever say this. But, since you’re asking, if I’d had to guess—and I did—about where those chemicals might have come from … it doesn’t take a genius to think they might have come from his girlfriend, whose purse was like a pharmacy.”
“That’s shitty to say. And actually, stupid, too.”
“That was how he described it.”
I stopped. “He said my purse was a pharmacy? But even if … that had nothing to do with …”
“Nothing?”
I could have strangled him. Keeping my voice down was nearly impossible. “Look, I’ve fucked up. I’ve fucked up so many times in so many ways I stopped counting. I fucked up after he died—got in a car and drove drunk. But I’m not a pill-head. Paolo never took anything of mine—”
The sound of glass breaking came from the kitchen. Cal and I rushed in to find Olivia standing in a puddle.
Her eyes were round and afraid, her voice already shredded with the pressure of tears. “Andy jumped and I …”
Adults emerged from our petulance. Immediately, both of our voices changed.
“Honey, it’s fine,” I told her as she buried her face in her father’s shirt.
With Olivia attached to his side, Cal motioned toward the pantry and I nodded. He went in and retrieved Mom’s broom and dustpan. “If you take Andy out, I’ll get this glass up.”
I supposed that this was what the Marines had been like—everyone did their part. I took hold of Andy’s collar and went back to the porch, where I checked his paws.
When I came back inside, Olivia was sitting at my kitchen table and Cal was laying a dish towel over the side of the sink.
“It’s all taken care of.” He had returned to professional mode. “You may want to go over it once more later, just to be safe.”
“Will do.” My voice was weirdly formal sounding as I sat beside Olivia. She’d laid her arms and head down on the table.
“I’m really sorry,” she said.
“It’s really, really okay. Just a glass,” I assured her with a shrug. Then an idea came to me. I moved Cal aside as I found some string and a pair of scissors in a kitchen drawer. “Besides, I have some magic dust that puts things back together. I’ll just sprinkle a little on it later if I get around to it.”
Olivia was smiling in anticipation, watching my hands as I returned. “What do you mean?”
“Sit.” I motioned toward a chair.
She sat. Andy looked on, tongue wagging.
Depression is so horribly self-absorbed. Working with kids is exactly the opposite. You just focus on them, completely. Olivia straightened, smiled. It had already worked.
I did what Marty had shown me and looped the string. I found the “dust” in my pocket, closed the scissors, showed her the cut, worked the magic. Then I put the string back together.
“How’d you do that?”
“I told you.” It was my turn to sound calm. “Magic. Really nothing it doesn’t work on.”
She looked at her father, who rolled his eyes.
“Show me again!”
I did.
“We actually really should get on,” Cal said, finally.
Olivia sprang to her feet, thanking me and petting Andy on the way through the door.
“I’ll be right there,” Cal called after her.
He looked at his shoes for so long that I almost spoke up. Finally, he said, “You’re right.”
I started an angry stammer, then stopped.
“What you said was right,” he continued. “Your prescriptions are none of my business. I jumped to conclusions. And I apologize.”
Now I was really surprised. “Wow, okay. Thank you.”
“Emily, I shouldn’t have—”
“Oh, shut up with all that.” I said. “Don’t be so weird and formal. I just don’t get it. Taking care of me? That’s what he said?”
Cal nodded, squinting at me.
“What?”
“Actually …” He searched for the words. “It makes even less sense now.”
I couldn’t have agreed more. I ached to tell him about Sandy, but how much of her story would be it responsible to share? “There’s something … that might be happening …”
He turned. “Something?”
I handed him my phone. “Put your number in here. Now’s obviously not a good time, but can I call you this week?”
He held my phone like it was an animal that might bite him.
“I’m not going to prank call you, Cal.”
Seeming to consider this, he jabbed his index finger roughly against the screen and handed it back to me.
Watching him and Olivia start down the front steps, I couldn’t help but want to fast-forward time to my meeting with Sandy. The desire to see her, to know what she’d learned, burned like hot coal in my stomach.
FIFTEEN
Eighteen months before the lake, I met Cal the same night I met Paolo, at a fund-raiser for medical research. I’d dragged Allie along as my date.
“Remind me why we’re going to a fund-raiser?” she asked as I sped toward the frozen-in-time University Club, with its imposing curtains and sturdy silverware.
There was enough incredulity in Allie’s voice that I smiled to not feel offended.
“It’s for H1-N24 research. It’s been almost twenty years since …”
The air between us changed as she understood. The mention of a deceased parent does that. Allie’s eyes conveyed warmth, even pity, as her lips pressed together.
“It’s not going to be bad,” I said, knowing this only because I’d asked specifically about the content of the presentations before RSVPing yes. No way was I making either of us sit through a slideshow about the disease itself—the symptoms, or various forms of partially effective treatments. I knew plenty about H1-N24 already. First signs showing within three days of infection—mild fever, headache, muscle pains, followed by vomiting. Later, bleeding from the mouth, nose, and gums. Low blood pressure eventually causing organ failure and death.
I’d made the mistake of attending a presentation once where grainy images flashed of microbes on slides, followed by photos of p
atients with exhausted, horrified expressions. There’s no academic curiosity when it comes to a loved one’s suffering. Imagining my father, I’d run out of that conference room with a hand pressed over my mouth.
But this one was different. Easy. Just talk about the research itself and its funding needs.
The University Club was exactly as I’d remembered it from Athletic Department banquets. My job was to stand on stage during one of the presentations beside a dozen other people who’d lost family members to the disease. For this, my name tag was adorned with a star. The clink of glasses and flatware punctuated the rumble of conversation. Allie leaned forward as the speakers took the small stage, digging her elbows into the white tablecloth—obviously missing campus more than I did.
“You’re okay?” she asked before I went. The earnestness of her friendship made me feel vaguely guilty.
“All I have to do is stand up straight. And for that, I’ve consumed the perfect amount of wine.” My words blended slightly. I winked.
When it was time, I climbed the wobbly stairs with the rest of the group and smiled into the obscuring light. The speaker, a researcher named Jay Silver, began an impassioned appeal.
My eyes brimmed with hot tears.
Don’t think, I said to myself. Go somewhere else.
Then applause began. I was heading to the restroom when a voice behind me spoke. “Your father has been an inspiration,” it said.
“Thanks,” I said, irritated. I hadn’t needed to know that. What I would have liked was the eighteen years with my father I’d missed.
“I mean it.” He extended his hand. “I’m Paolo.” His eyes seemed warm beneath the dark tangle of hair.
The hallway was dim, my vision still blurred by the confounding stage lights. “Emily,” I said, accepting the handshake. I was caught off guard but for some reason had stopped walking toward the restroom.
“You’re leaving?” He looked vaguely concerned.
I nodded. “In a minute. My part is over. Plus, I brought a friend who I probably owe a drink at this point.”
“I know it’s a little offhanded,” he began, “But I’m meeting a friend after this too. Why don’t you join us? I’d love to buy Sydney Firestone’s daughter a drink.”
As long as you stop mentioning my last name like that, I thought, feigning indifference.
Later, I pulled Allie out a back door before the dessert was even served.
“You want to go where?” she asked, stumbling after me. “Shouldn’t we stay for the end?”
She was right, of course, we should have stayed. So, why the rush? Maybe reminders of my father made me run. Maybe the weirdest pickup line I’d ever heard intrigued me. Probably both.
“Would you have any fun at all if it wasn’t for me?”
“Emily.”
“It’ll be an adventure,” I assured Allie, who’d folded her arms but couldn’t fully stifle her grin.
* * *
Minutes later, we were in midtown at the Red Door Saloon.
Allie nudged me as Paolo stood. Behind him, his friend Cal—bearded and serious-eyed, the sort of outdoor-type guy I never seemed to relate to—shook his head. Suddenly, I was back in middle school.
The bartender placed a cold glass in my hand and condensation ran icily down my forearm. Though I started to refuse him, Paolo rushed to buy it—and one for Allie, too, whom he hadn’t even met.
The drink was strong, perfect. I pointed at Cal. “Your friend looks like he’s having an awesome time.”
“He’ll be fine for a minute. I’m talking to a beautiful girl right now.”
Oh my God, I thought, I know better.
And yet, that was the start of it.
* * *
Later, Allie cornered me at the far end of the patio while Paolo pretended not to watch us. In college, the soccer girls used to tease Allie about being a mother hen, but she’d always had a way of being sweet and direct at the same time. Her black hair caught the red and pink bar lights. She rubbed my shoulder.
“Leaving with those guys is a bad idea,” she informed me. I could barely hear her above the roil of conversations and the thumping bass line through the speakers. I could feel the reverb in my chest.
I respected that Allie was trying to protect me, but that didn’t mean I was going to listen to her.
“Emily, remember the time you went hiking by yourself? With only, like, a tarp and some bear spray?”
I did remember that. I’d come back covered in scabs. Our assistant coach had asked if I’d been homeless. “Yeah. I don’t know what I was thinking there.”
“Or the time the team flew to New York for the Memorial Day tournament and you went off in a cab with people you just met on the plane? Strangers, basically?”
I had to smile—albeit involuntarily—about that one.
“It’s funny now because nothing happened,” she said.
“We won that tournament,” I reminded her.
She shook her head. “Me and two other girls spent the first day searching all over the city for you.”
She was right. I could be a major-league pain in the ass, especially back then. Meds, therapy, career, and support all kept me coloring inside the lines.
But what I saw in her eyes was the heartbreaker—that my selfishness and compulsiveness could be so hard on people around me. It didn’t feel like selfishness to me; that’s what no one seemed to understand. It just felt like doing what I needed to do. The part of a person that knows the difference between what they want and what should happen was, in me, broken. Disregulated was how my first therapist had put it.
I could be very hard to care about.
Allie could see on my face that I was going. She dropped her hand from my shoulder.
Thirty minutes later, Allie was long gone. My head spun as Paolo and I tangled together like teenagers in the back of Cal’s Volvo. Even drunk, the car seemed oddly anachronistic. Cal didn’t say very much, but based on his hunting jacket, I pictured him as the sort who drove an enormous SUV.
“Where to?” I was asking. “It’s early.” It was not early. I’d never meant to go out out, but once I get started, I’m a spinning top. I knew that.
It was stupid, a throwback to earlier times, but that didn’t seem to matter.
Cal’s eyes were straight ahead. “Home. I’m taking you home.”
Paolo and I jointly whined from the back seat.
The Volvo moved along at a safe but very deliberate pace. Up front, Cal’s head turned toward the center of the dashboard, where a small digital clock—which looked like it had been attached by Velcro—emitted a dusky green glow. Like a bomb timer in an eighties action movie.
Paolo teased, “Cal’s just up past his bedtime. I don’t know how I talked him into going out.” He put a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Lights out is at what, nine thirty?”
“Ten on weeknights, Friday and Saturday it’s ten thirty.”
They had the easy camaraderie of teammates. Cal’s hand patted the gearshift.
Paolo stage-whispered, “He eats the same things, at the same times, every single day.”
In the rearview mirror, I caught the faintest upturn of a smile. “Like that’s a bad thing,” Cal muttered.
“Cal’s a vet,” Paolo explained.
“Like small animal?” I piped up.
“Marine Corps,” he clarified quickly.
They seemed nothing alike. “Wait, how do you two actually know each other?”
“Softball,” Cal said simply.
I turned to Paolo. “Somehow, you don’t strike me as a softball player.”
Cal struck me as a softball player.
Paolo struck me as just a player.
“You like being in the lab?” I asked him.
“I love being in lab.” His voice was soft, a gentle rumble in my ear. “You know about the research, of course.” I felt the muscles in Paolo’s stomach tighten as he sat up behind me.
“Of course.”
“Emily, where did you say your place is?” Cal asked, turning the wheel. The engine growled as he accelerated through a yellow light. I was still watching Paolo’s eyes in the rushing streetlight.
* * *
The next day, I sketched a picture of a test tube with a wide-eyed, smiling face and texted it to Paolo.
LOL, he texted back. WHAT ARE YOU DOING TONIGHT?
Later that night, I waited for him to get off work.
His text appeared: I’LL BE LATE.
Days later, jittery, hypomanic, I stood in the concrete aisle of a used bookstore, tiny puddles squeaking under each of my sandals, a spring thunderstorm pummeling the roof. My hands trembled as I paced, smelling the slightly sweet, vaguely hypnotic smell of decaying paper, looking for something, looking for something. The new relationship had me buzzed. My phone vibrated in my pocket, somebody calling. No way could I contemplate answering. Reading was impossible; no way was I sitting still. I knew that. But book shopping was something I could do. I needed a book to find me.
When it did, when I saw the one, I took it from the shelf and opened the cover. Tucked in the pages was a plane ticket the previous owner had used as a bookmark. The flight was from Nashville to Argentina. The carrier was United.
This is crazy, I thought. This is crazy.
This was the language of God.
I floated above, saw invisible things.
I closed the cover, bought the book, and called Paolo from the parking lot.
His voice echoed off his lab’s hard surfaces.
I asked him, “If you came with a warning label attached to you, what would it read?” This was after we’d had sex for the third time. As if anything he’d say could change the way I was about to feel about him.
He laughed quietly. I pictured him cupping the phone with his other hand. “Why do you ask?”
“Because I want to know. I want to know you. At the beginning of relationships people usually know what the problems will be, but they minimize them.”
“Is that a psychologist thing or a bipolar thing?” I could practically hear him grinning. “Or both?”
“I guess you won’t say,” I said.
I heard the sound of a door closing, his voice adjusting to having more privacy. “I don’t get it. You want me to tell you what problems I’m going to cause you in the future?”
