Jesus shrugs. “At least we can enjoy a moment of sunshine.”
Sunshine? I hadn’t noticed the sun was out. The world felt grey and ominous. Now with the warmth on my face, I notice that, suspended in the air, over the blanket of white snow below, everything seems more quiet. Almost serene. Broom-swept clouds fill the azure sky. Sequins of sunlight reflect off helmets of those rushing down the mountain. For a moment, nobody knows anything and it’s okay.
Forward and back.
“Feel better?” he asks.
“Yes, thanks.” Skiers and boarders rush by below us, carving S shapes down the mountain. Fast and slow. Old and young. Edges and V’s. I think about Jeff and how it’s been over and yet not over since the night we met, and wonder if that’s what life is, just people rushing past and meaning nothing, except for those select people, who, for some reason are on the same lift as you, and for what? Because in the end, even they have come only to go, and what’s the meaning in it all? The trail of skiers tapers off. The mountain grows quiet.
I introduce myself to my lift partner and he tells me his name is Cameron. He just moved to New York City. When I ask about his personal development coaching, he tells me it’s called The Masters Class, which conjures images of bald men with orange robes and nonsensical koans.
“What exactly gets mastered?” I ask, barely able to keep a straight face.
“Life.”
I have to give it to him. It’s not a bad response.
“It’s about learning to live one’s life consciously and deliberately,” he says. “And examining one’s beliefs.”
“My friend Ben would be into that,” I nod. “He attends those Tony Robbins things.”
“It’s quite different,” Cameron says, and by the way he says it, I’m guessing he doesn’t think much of Tony Robbins. “But he might find it helpful all the same.” He hands me a couple business cards from his wallet. “You may benefit from our methods as well.”
“Thanks.” I glance at my watch. It’s 11:45 AM. Even if the lift starts immediately, I won’t get to the restaurant in time. For all I know, Jeff and Alex may be stuck on the lift themselves. My phone indicates there’s no cell service on this slope, but Jeff has texted: “CALL ME.”
My anxiety spikes. He must be at the restaurant already.
In the distance, there’s the beating sound of a helicopter. White with a red cross, it passes overhead, disappearing to the other side of the mountain. “Someone must have gotten hurt,” I say. “The last time we were here, someone skied into a tree.”
“It must be serious,” Cameron nods.
It’s past noon. Alex will be famished by now. The texts aren’t going through, but I write one anyway: “Eat without me. I’ll see you back at the lodge.” Again, the message is not delivered.
After another fifteen minutes, the helicopter reappears and returns from the direction it first came. The lift heaves to a start. I get off at the first exit area. Cameron continues up the mountain. People say skiing is like riding a bike. Once you have it down, it’s down for good. That must be true for young people. Or those who are athletic. For me, the baby hill seems like Mt. Everest. I start off snowplowing. Kids and other beginners zig zag around me. I stiffen, determined to maintain control, nervous they’ll crash into me.
Easy, Amy, go easy.
Plow right, then left. Right, left. Half way down, my body eases up. More confident, I parallel, taking the curves smoothly. It’s all in the hips and knees. Almost effortless. Then, I’m at the base of the mountain. I’ve done it. It’s over.
After lunch, I’ll try again. Maybe I’ll try the green trails next.
I step out of the skis, stand them against the rack, and walk as swiftly as possible to the restaurant. It’s nearly 1 PM. They may be finishing up. When I arrive, however, I see they’ve gone. They must be back on the slopes. I walk to the village area. As luck would have it, I find a long pair of surf boarding pants that feel extra silky soft. The length will make it safe to cut out the netting, the part that causes Alex the most discomfort.
After picking up a salad for myself, I walk back to the lodge, snow crunching beneath my boots. I call Jeff, just in case he has phone reception.
“You still in the village?” he asks.
“Got em,” I say, about the swim trunks. “I’m headed back to the room.”
“Wait, you need to come back.” He pauses. “Alex is in the emergency clinic.”
Everything stops. Breathing. Heartbeat. A chill razors through me.
The helicopter. My Alex.
In the ER clinic, the doctor goes through the concussion protocol, checking pupil dilation, vision, eye tracking, knee reflexes, and memory. “How many fingers am I holding up?” the doctor asks, holding up index and middle fingers.
“Two,” Alex states, his face yellowish-grey.
“Now?” the doctor asks, holding all digits except the thumb.
“Four.” Alex lurches forward, vomiting onto the doctor’s black clogs. The doctor cringes and stiffly steps back.
“I’m so sorry, doc,” I say.
“It’s fine,” he sighs. “I buy these in bulk.”
The doctor instructs the nurse to start an IV to keep Alex hydrated. “We can give him an anti-nausea medication,” he says.
“Fine,” Jeff says.
“Ten milligrams, Metoclopramide,” the doctor tells the nurse.
“Shouldn’t we be getting an X-ray or something?” Jeff asks.
“I’m putting in an order for a CT scan,” the doctor says, monitoring the pulse.
I know from the last concussive experience that scans are to rule out internal bleeding. If they show injury, the diagnosis changes from concussion to “mild traumatic brain injury.” The doctor finishes his assessment. He types his notes into the computer.
“Okay, Alex,” the doctor says. “I’m going to say a few words. I’d like you to repeat them back to me in the correct order.”
“I want to go home,” Alex whines, squinting from the fluorescent light.
“We’re at Stratton, Alex,” Jeff says.
“Like, duh!” he snaps.
Jeff startles. Derision is usually reserved for me.
“It’s a figure of speech, Jeff,” I say. “He means the lodge.”
“I realize that,” Jeff retorts. “I wanted to be certain he wasn’t having a memory lapse.”
Typically, I back off from confrontation. Today, however, I lock my gaze with Jeff’s until he looks away.
“Okay, Alex. Repeat these back to me: Finger, penny, blanket, lemon, insect,” the doctor says.
“Finger—”
“Penny,” Jeff silently mouths.
“Lemon, insect…” Alex pauses. “I don’t know.”
Skin sags around Jeff’s eyes. Worry lines bracket his mouth.
“Okay.” The doctor types into the computer. “Candle, paper, sugar, sandwich, wagon.”
“My head hurts,” Alex complains.
“We’ll discuss that, I promise,” the doctor says. “Let’s get through this assessment, first.”
“Okay,” Alex says.
“Candle, paper, sugar, sandwich, wagon,” the doctor repeats.
“Candle…” Alex says.
Paper, I think. Jeff mouths the word.
“Keep going,” the doctor says.
“Candle…” Alex says, starting to cry. He holds his head in his hands. “My head’s going to blow up.”
“Okay, enough,” the doctor says, typing more notes.
“You can lie down, sweetheart,” I tell Alex, helping him get settled. The nurse has brought a warm blanket. He curls up with it over his face as I gently rub his back. When he seems to be asleep, I turn to Jeff. “What happened?”
“I told you,” he says. “He went off trail into a thicket.”
<
br /> “And?”
“And, what? He’s okay.”
“What the fuck happened, Jeff?”
“Well, you can see what happened.” He waves a hand at Alex.
“Um, the last I checked,” I say, through gritted teeth, “skiing into a thicket doesn’t cause a head injury. That is unless—something—happens.”
“He jumped a ledge, all right?” Jeff booms. “There was a 60-foot drop.”
“A what?!”
“He would have landed it, except the edge of his ski caught a rock,” Jeff says, deflating. “He flipped and hit the back of his head.”
If only I could hit the back of your fucking head, you stupid, arrogant prick.
Alex buries his head under the blanket. I switch the bucket to the other side of the bed.
“Did he lose consciousness?” I ask. More than 20 minutes is considered a more serious injury.
“Barely,” he says.
“Exactly how long?”
“I don’t know. Maybe a few minutes.”
“How long?” I yell. “Jeff!”
“15 minutes.”
“Fifteen minutes!”
“He’s going to be fine,” Jeff says.
“We are in the ER,” I say. “He is not fine.”
“Why do you always have to…” His voice trails off.
“Have to what?” I challenge. “Don’t act like I’m making mountains out of molehills, Jeff. Didn’t I say we should get—”
“We didn’t know this would happen,” Jeff argues.
“I knew this could happen. I told you, but you didn’t listen. You never listen.”
“Listen to what? Are you psychic?” He throws up his hands. “This could have happened to anyone.”
“You were trailing behind Alex,” I say.
“So? An instructor would have been too.”
“An instructor would have caught up to him as soon as he went off trail,” I argue. “He would have known about the cliff and cut him off before the pass.”
“So now you’re the expert,” he says. “You don’t even ski, but you know better.”
“Excuse me,” the doctor reluctantly interrupts. “Do you know Alex’s blood type?”
“His what?” I ask.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says. “I put in the order for the scan, but in the meantime, I’m sending you to the lab for bloodwork.”
“Us?” I ask.
“In case we need a match,” the doctor says.
Beneath all the lies and deceit are justifications and heartbreak. The chance that Rick’s Alex’s biological father is one in a million, but, however minuscule, the possibility exists. Secrets, I realize, live in every moment, lurking within the buffer of months and years. They grow like parasites. Wait to be exposed.
That day. Every thought and emotion, every sensation comes back to me. The lofty feeling of being in front of the mirrors; Jeff’s hands brushing the lace, tucking me here and pinning me there. The prenup, which needed to be signed here, and here, and here….
“You really think he needs a transfusion?” Jeff asks.
The word “transfusion” draws me back to the room. “What?”
“It’s possible,” the doctor says.
“What exactly are you looking for on the scan?” Jeff asks.
“Indicators of internal bleeding,” the doctor says. “Swelling. Trauma to the brain.”
I swallow.
“If so, we may need to put in a stent,” he says.
“A stent?” Feeling suddenly lightheaded, I close my eyes.
“He’s fine,” Jeff says. “He’s not going to need a stent.”
“Yes, first things first. Let’s start with the scans,” the doctor says. “If there’s little swelling, this may be a moot point.”
“Please, god,” I pray.
Jeff’s phone sounds. He lets it ring until it goes to voicemail. Alex throws off the blanket and vomits. It sprays the blanket and floor, missing the bin altogether.
“It’s okay, sweetheart,” I say, using a paper towel to wipe the spittle from his mouth.
“I don’t feel good,” Alex whimpers, hiding under the blanket again.
“I know, baby.” I remove the soiled blanket. The nurse spreads a clean one over Alex and me. Transport arrives to take Alex to radiology. Alex wakes when I get up from the bed. “Don’t go,” he says, so exhausted he can barely open his eyes.
“I won’t,” I say.
“Daddy,” Alex moans, blindly reaching with a hand.
“I’m here,” Jeff assures, from the other side of the bed. “Mommy and Daddy are right here with you.”
Transport wheels Alex down the corridor to radiology.
“Don’t leave me,” Alex cries.
“We won’t.”
“Promise,” he cries.
“Promise,” Jeff says, and he doesn’t let go.
Black Ice
It’s 6:30 PM and snowing again. As I leave work, the sales manager waves goodbye through the glass window. I acknowledge her with a nod, wrap my scarf tightly around my neck, and check to see if Alex texted back yet. Options for dinner tonight include Chinese, Japanese, or Greek. If I call and order now, the food will be ready by the time I get off the subway. The wind has picked up. There’s an ugly edge to it. This morning, before the hustle of rush hour, the beauty of the city snowscape nearly brought tears to my eyes. The soft downy whiteness coating the streets. The crunch of snow beneath my boots. The hush, as if I were sharing some kind of secret. I felt so grateful about life: mostly about the job, but Alex, too. For a moment, I glimpsed a future. While my current position was only Assistant buyer, and while Monarch was not established like JJ or other boutiques like Intermix, there would be more opportunity if I did well. There was hope.
But now, the wind smacks me so hard in the face that I’m not feeling quite as positive nor hopeful. Head down, I barrel toward the subway. The cold seeps through my down coat as if it were nothing but tissue paper. I hold my breath with each gust. Slush pools at the curbs, starting to harden. There are footprints where people navigate around them. It’s still rush hour. Despite the heavy flow of pedestrian traffic, people wait their turn to follow in these tracks. I’m wearing fur-lined, knee high Aquatalia boots, which are famous for their resilience to the winter elements. They’re warm and keep my feet dry, but there’s a heel, which makes me more cautious. At the subway where there’s salt over the sidewalk, I hurry down the steps and check my phone. Alex has texted back: “Korean.”
There’s no cell service in the station, so I return up the steps to call the restaurant. The wind rages with such ferocity, the person at the other end of the line can hardly make out what I’m saying.
“Two bibimbaps!” I yell.
“What’s that?” he asks.
Ugh. I hang up, my eyes tearing from the cold. The restaurant is exactly four blocks from my stop and then there are another four blocks—two long ones—to Jeff’s. I race down the steps, pause to reconsider, then return back upstairs.
I text Alex: “Freezing. Lemon chicken soup, Greek salad, gyro, ok?”
People rush past, brushing against me and disappearing down the steps to shelter. I resist the urge to race after them, and when I don’t hear from Alex immediately, I text again: “?”
“Please?” he responds. “BIBIMBAP.”
“K. B3 it is.” Alex hasn’t eaten much, if anything, today, so it’s actually a good sign he wants to eat at all. Jeff started Alex on some kind of listening therapy this morning. It was at least 45 minutes by car, way out by the Woodbury outlet stores, during which Alex apparently got car sick. Ever since the accident two years ago, Alex suffers from frequent migraines and motion sickness. Jeff called me because he considered staying the night at an inn, even though it’s actually my night
with Alex. Technically, according to the “agreement,” I get Alex Monday to Thursday. But Jeff rented a place two blocks east of the hospital, and on my nights, I visit Alex there. It’s better this way. Alex refuses to visit Georgie’s because her apartment is practically on top of the hospital ambulances. The sirens and whirling lights trigger symptoms for traumatic brain injury. Jeff works from home and takes Alex to all his appointments at the hospital. He also researches different alternatives. Jeff is so hands-on that I was able to take an internship last year. And now, as of three months ago, this assistant buyer position.
I retreat into the subway, shivering, my knuckles red and my hand so stiff from cold I can hardly make a fist.
At Jeff’s, Alex is asleep on the sofa. Jeff is on the phone, speaking with his assistant from the office. He gestures to be quiet by touching a forefinger to his lips. I remove my coat, and while Jeff disappears into his office in the other room, I make myself a cup of hot tea. The prenup had made it easier to separate and divorce. That day in the hospital, before Jeff and I got results back from the lab, I confessed about Rick.
“When?” he asked.
“The day of the fitting. After I left.”
“The fitting,” he sighed.
“I was confused… Devastated, actually.”
He was quiet. No doubt, he remembered the prenup. Finally, he said, “So, now you’ve decided to be honest.”
“Yeah, you should try it sometime.” “You might actually like it.”
We started to argue, but the doctor arrived to say Alex would need surgery. We sat, mute, staring through people and walls.
“You don’t think…?” he finally said.
“Rick? It’s possible.”
Jeff got up like a pained old man and walked out of the hospital. A couple hours later, the nurse appeared in the waiting area to send Jeff to the lab to draw blood, but by then, I figured he was gone for good. I wanted to kick myself for having said anything. I should have waited for the results.
Not even half an hour later, however, Jeff marched back into the waiting room. He had gone back to the hotel, showered and changed into a clean polo and loafers. “You can leave me if you want, but you can’t take Alex. He’s my son. Nothing can change that.”
Beauty Page 12
