Convince Me

by Nina Sadowsky

  He and I nodded amiably at each other. “Good day?” I asked.

  “The best,” he answered. “This is my daughter, Daisy. And I’m Aaron. Aaron Roth. I don’t think we introduced ourselves before.”

  “Carol Childs,” I announced, extending my hand. “This is my son, Justin. Do you two kids know each other? You’re both freshmen.”

  “Everyone knows Justin.” Daisy smiled at him. “He’s, like, already campus famous.”

  “Campus famous?” Aaron questioned with a wry tilt of his head. “Uh-oh, that sounds dangerous.”

  “That’s why we’re sworn to secrecy, shhh.” Daisy put her index finger up to her lips and winked at Justin.

  I have to admit I was amused. What hijinks had my darling boy gotten up to that had made him campus famous? His bashful, pleased expression made something shift in me. I realized I didn’t want to know.

  With sudden blinding clarity I recognized that Justin had to be free to grow away from me, and with that realization I felt freer too. I found myself standing a little straighter, rolling my shoulders back and raising my head. When I did, I was looking directly into Aaron’s eyes.

  He was looking at me the way a man looks at a woman if you get my meaning.

  “I was hoping to see you again,” he said softly.

  Before I could reply, the hostess proclaimed our table ready. Justin announced he was starving, with great dramatic flair. I followed him to our table, but paused to hand Aaron one of my business cards before I did.

  Justin and I thoroughly enjoyed our meal, cracking into Maine lobsters and splurging with warm apple pie à la mode. I saw Aaron and Daisy leave while we were still lingering over coffee. Aaron gave me a little wave, which made me feel hopeful.

  I drove Justin back to his dorm, with promises of all of his favorite dishes when he came home for Thanksgiving. I piloted back to Long Island with a renewed sense of spirit.

  For the next few days, an anticipatory thrill coursed through me every time my phone rang. I not only hoped Aaron would call, I expected as much. As time went on, and I didn’t hear from him, I shrugged off the sting with a series of rationalizations: He had lost my card; he was busy; he decided it would be awkward for the kids if it didn’t work out for us.

  Reminding myself it had been a mere chance encounter and no more, I resolved to put Aaron out of my thoughts. I joined a book club and signed up for a Mediterranean cooking class. The teacher was a gorgeous Greek guy named George, and he and I became a thing for several months.

  Thinking about George makes me sigh. He was fun. And sweet. But Justin came home for the summer and I became locked in my son’s orbit once again. I apologized to George and meant it, as I broke dates or ignored his needs, but when I looked up at the end of the summer he was gone.

  I’m back in my Wilshire Corridor apartment now, watching condolence flowers wilt onto the dining room table crowded with bouquets.

  Why do people send flowers when someone dies? They decay so fast, sickly sweet in scent, brilliant colors quickly gone smudged and brown. We should send cacti, with their hostile spines and minimal need for water; they seem a far more fitting emblem of the need for resilience in the face of death.

  My apartment is no more empty than usual; I’ve lived here alone since I moved to L.A., but today it feels especially still and quiet. Perhaps it’s simply the contrast to the fervor of the funeral and the tumult of the bar afterward. More likely it’s the overwhelming recognition of just how empty my life is now.

  There never will be grandchildren spilling across my threshold as I had imagined. I’ll never be the happy babysitter urging Justin and Annie to go out for date nights and away for vacations, all of us secure with me taking charge of their little ones.

  Forward, there is nothing; my family line is ended. I can only look back. Death upon death, loss upon loss has been visited on me and all I have now are my memories. The fondest of them are, of course, about Justin, my golden child and my most recent and most savage grief.

  Campus famous. He was more than that. He was doing great things. He was a great man. The world has lost one of its exceptional men and I pledge to devote the rest of my life to preserving and protecting Justin’s legacy.

  It’s the least I can do. What any mother would.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  ANNIE

  Will snores softly on the sofa. We talked for hours last night, dancing around questions and fears more than confronting them directly. The amount of alcohol we consumed didn’t help. Finally, I handed him a pillow and a blanket and directed him to go to sleep. He was in no state to drive and we have a plan (of sorts) for today.

  This morning, in the cold, hungover light of day, I have to admit that I’d patched and papered over more than one thing that seemed incongruent, if not outright weird, in order to preserve the picture of Justin I’d created in my head.

  Probably the most egregious behavior I ultimately chose to ignore occurred about five months into our perfect romance when Justin ghosted me for three full weeks. I texted him several times. First an ordinary heya; then an are you okay? punctuated with a smiley face. Finally, a simple call me? He didn’t.

  I left one voicemail message expressing concern. Then backed off.

  I was in agony. I tortured myself by cycling through various scenarios: He’d tired of me, fallen for someone else; he was comatose in the hospital after a tragic hit and run; he was too much of a coward to break up with me in person; he had been abducted by aliens. (I knew that last option was ludicrous but I was desperate.)

  I thought about calling or texting Will, but I would not be a girl who chased after a man who’d made it clear he wasn’t interested. I was confused and wounded, but I had my pride. Bella, Felicia, and a few other solid friends rallied around, taking me out for drinks and letting me rant.

  Bella ranted back when Justin went quiet on me. A lot. Alternating between two main themes: I always suspected something, he was too good to be true and You deserve a man who will treat you right.

  While I, of course, agreed with the latter, my love-wrenched heart rejected the former. I didn’t want to believe I had been dumped or duped. I knew in my bones what we had together. I missed Justin desperately, but as the days dragged on, I gradually battened down my urge to talk about him and resolved to move on.

  I didn’t hear from Will either, a double blow. I’d lost Justin, but JAWs was also no more. The tribe had disbanded. Or at least had abandoned me.

  By day 18, a cold kernel of anger had taken root. How dare he disappear on me? Who the fuck did he think he was? Who did they both think they were?

  An ugly, critical voice screamed back: Of course he ditched you. He’s Justin Childs. He’s magic. What are you? Dull, failed, ordinary, nothing.

  nothing [ˈnə-thiŋ]

  noun, 1. no thing, not anything; 2. no part, no portion; 3. one of no consequence, significance, or interest

  A therapist told me once that if I heard a parent speaking to a child the way I speak to myself, I’d call the Department of Children and Family Services. That gave me some perspective, but old habits die hard.

  I imagined Justin on an island with a supermodel; I thought I saw him one night at the Farmers Market. I wore his hoodie to bed every night (which I didn’t dare confess to Bella). Most of those nights I cried myself to sleep.

  Day 22 was a Sunday. I’d begged off offers of brunch or a flea market ramble. I planned a day alone in front of the television. My sole goal for the day was to stay in my pajamas.

  I’d laid in everything I might need the night before: fizzy water, fruit, chocolate, bagels for breakfast, a pre-cooked chicken to gnaw whenever, trail mix and tortilla chips for snacking. It’s good to have options.

  I slept until a luxurious 9:42. Splashed water on my face, peed, and took a hot cup of coffee rich with half-and-half back into b
ed. First up, I’d planned All About Eve, and I pressed PLAY snuggling comfortably against my headboard. Cinnamon Toast curled into a ball on my stomach and purred contentedly.

  At least somebody loves me.

  The wonderful few months I’d had with Justin had begun to jumble into a kind of murky swamp. I’d parsed past events and built a case against him, minor slights tabulated, tiny failures mirrored large in memory. My wounded heart was not so much healing as hardening.

  Wanting to stay in the black-and-white realm, I watched The Maltese Falcon next. These films seemed of a simpler time, for all of the heartache and betrayal on display.

  Sydney Greenstreet was in the midst of his furious temper tantrum over the revelation that the Falcon was in fact a fake, when I heard a click.

  It was the distinct sound of a key in my front door lock. Bella had a key, as did my mother and the building super, but none of them usually dropped by without letting me know in advance. Would they? Bella had been worried about me and I’d been avoiding my mother.

  I wasn’t scared. It was broad daylight. I lived in a building in which my neighbors and I heard one another whether we wanted to or not. It was someone with a key.

  Bella, I decided, determined to drag me out.

  Equally resolute to resist all such efforts, I drew the blankets up around my neck, grabbed a handful of tissues, and produced three pretty impressive fake sneezes. Cinnamon Toast leapt from my lap indignantly.

  The roses arrived in the room before the person carrying them. There were so many blood-red blooms that they barely made it through the doorway. When Justin emerged as their carrier, a barrage of thoughts flooded my brain:

  I wish I had brushed my teeth. Thank god he’s all right. This had better be fucking good. I won’t be bought with flowers. Goddamn him, I was just getting to the other side!

  Justin deposited the huge bouquet on my dresser, obscuring the film playing on the TV above it. I pressed PAUSE on the remote. Made a promise to myself to let him speak, but also one to remember my worth. My insides were flopping like a freshly beached fish.

  “Annie, I owe you an apology,” Justin began.

  Damn right you do. I pressed my lips together in a thin line. Just listen. But guard your heart.

  “Something happened and I didn’t know how to talk to you about it. So I did the cowardly thing and stopped talking to you completely.”

  I was bursting with questions. And anger. And excitement. And also a sense of rightness; I hadn’t been crazy, after all. This man, this relationship had been real.

  Justin settled himself a careful distance from me on the bed. Close enough to touch, but not touching.

  “I was getting these headaches, really knocked me down and out. I didn’t tell you because I didn’t want to worry you. But they wouldn’t stop, so I went to a neurologist.” He looked pointedly at me and held my gaze. “She told me I had a brain tumor.”

  A gasp escaped me. I instinctively leaned forward and grasped his hand. Justin sat rigidly. Cracked his neck to each side. Pop! Pop!

  “I couldn’t ask you to stay with me through that kind of ordeal,” he continued. “We haven’t known each other long enough. It didn’t seem fair. Will argued with me, it might interest you to know; he thinks I’ve been a dick.”

  “Will is right,” I managed to choke out, for which I was rewarded with one of Justin’s glorious smiles.

  “But here’s the thing, it turns out the neuro was wrong! Three other doctors later and it seems I’m fine. Well, maybe a terrible boyfriend, but I’m not going to die of brain cancer. At least not this week, anyway. I’m so sorry, Annie.”

  “How could you think I would…? Don’t you know I would stand by you through anything?”

  “You would, wouldn’t you?” Justin’s eyes were serious, blazing into mine with a love so fierce I had to avert my gaze.

  He tilted my face back to his. “You know that I’ve lost a lot of people. I couldn’t bear the thought of losing you too, so I did the really mature thing and ran away first. I have no excuse, I’m an ass.”

  “I hate you,” I murmured in a tone laden with love. “Really, really hate you.”

  He rained kisses on every inch of my body, while crooning endearments: You’re so beautiful; I’m so sorry; I’ll never do something like that again; I was just so scared; I love you; I can’t live without you. Please don’t be mad.

  My body unfolded like petals in spring sunshine.

  He fucked me then, unbrushed teeth and all.

  At first, Bella was loud in my ear with her opinions: You don’t disappear on someone you love, no matter what the reason. He’s a runner, Annie. He’ll run again.

  I didn’t want to hear it and so I didn’t. I’d shut Bella down so hard her teeth rattled. It was the first real rift we’ve had since we were seated next to each other in fourth grade. Our friendship survived middle school, high school, and attending college across the country from each other, and it had only been further cemented when we were both back in L.A. But her unveiled condemnation of Justin nearly broke us apart.

  After Justin and I were engaged, Bella kept her mouth shut, but I sensed her unease around him.

  I chalked it up to jealousy—not sexual, but it was certainly true that Justin had displaced Bella as my main confidant and partner in crime.

  Our wedding itself was epic. Justin would have never settled for anything less.

  My dress turned out magnificently, after all. It was a risqué choice for me, but not for Mrs. Justin Childs, and as I walked down the aisle in daringly cut tulle and silk to greet him, I remember thinking that the dress was like my chrysalis. After the wedding I would blossom into my new role. Annie Elizabeth Hendrix Childs.

  It was a beautiful, sunny Los Angeles afternoon. We gathered 225 of our nearest and dearest onto a tented expanse of lawn at the Hotel Bel-Air for a sweet and emotional ceremony. Justin and I both welled up when we exchanged our rings and Bella was handy with lace-trimmed hankies.

  The party afterward was a rager for the ages. Justin hired a sixteen-piece band with a heavy brass section as well as whimsically attired performers who roved among the guests throughout the night, surprising them with fanciful little gifts like puzzles, balloon animals, and crystal ball readings. Fire dancers closed the night, dazzling with their fiery torches and athletic moves.

  I pick up a framed photo from our wedding day. Justin’s seated. I’m perched on his lap. His arms circle my waist and while my face is angled more toward Justin than toward the camera, you can still see I am gazing at him with unbridled adoration. It’s how I felt that day. Like an already lucky girl who was now the luckiest girl in the world.

  I need to think. I need to sort the jumble of information ricocheting around my brain. Okay. What do I know? Know for certain?

  My husband was a liar. That much is true.

  I decide to start a list of known facts and questions about my husband.

  1. Justin Childs, age 33, deceased.

  When was the first time I felt even a hint that things were not as they seemed? I cast my mind back, parsing our relationship under the sudden, harsh light of doubt.

  Was there any clue before Justin ghosted me because of his misdiagnosis? With a sudden lurch of my stomach I realize I don’t know if Justin ever really had that brain tumor scare. I took it at face value, even respecting his desire not to talk about it after, but what if it was bullshit? What if that was why he told me never to speak of it?

  Then again, why would anyone make up such a horrific thing?

  I need coffee. I make a pot and while it brews, I gulp a glass of cold water and a couple of aspirins. I feed Cinnamon Toast and give her fresh water. Our kitchen is charming, one of the projects we’d managed to (almost) complete. The walls are a sunny yellow; the ’50s retro Formica table has matching yellow boomerangs and the
metal chairs yellow vinyl seats. This particular morning, I find all this cheeriness oppressive.

  When the coffee’s ready I pour two cups and walk over to Will’s prone form. Setting the cups down on the low-slung table in front of the sofa, I give his shoulder a soft shake.

  “Will,” I urge. “Get up.”

  He grunts and burrows his head deeper into a pillow.

  “Will. What did Justin tell you about his brain tumor?”

  Will rolls over and rubs sleep from his eyes. “His what?”

  “Remember, he and I had only been going out a few months when he got the misdiagnosis? He disappeared on me for like three weeks and…” I trail off, realizing that Will is looking at me like I’m completely crazy. My voice is shrill as I continue. “He told me you said he was a dick to keep it from me!”

  Pushing himself up to a sitting position, Will lifts a steaming mug to his mouth and sips. “Well, it’s what I would have said if I knew he’d done such a thing, but”—he shrugs—“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  FACTS ABOUT MY HUSBAND

  1. Justin Childs, age 33, deceased

  2. Medical history: uncertain

  3. Pathological liar: quite certain

  I drain half of my own cup. The liquid is scalding, but I barely feel it. “Do you think it’s possible he hid it from you?”

  Will’s eyes are bleak. “I don’t know. It’s possible, I guess.”

  We spend the next few minutes looking at a calendar and pinpointing the exact three weeks that Justin had gone AWOL on me. It wasn’t all that difficult; I’d practically carved the dates into my flesh.

  “We were up north together then,” Will affirms. “For a fundraising trip. Not the entire three weeks, but two of them. Then Justin came back to L.A. and I went to see my mother for a couple of days. If something was going on with him medically then, it’s news to me.”

  “Why on earth would Justin tell me he had been diagnosed with a brain tumor?”