When We Were Young

by Jaclyn Goldis

  Joey had thought hearing that Leo had suffered too would make her feel better, but it didn’t. She bit her lip and tasted frosting. The artificial sweet roiled her stomach.

  “I punched a guy in the supermarket once. He took the avocado I wanted.”

  “Good avocados are serious business.” Joey forced a smile.

  Leo raked a hand through his hair. “Yeah. Well, at some point, I was on a ship called Checkmate. There was this older woman chartering the boat one week—pretty, thirties, the wife of some gazillionaire. Her husband was negotiating deals on a satellite phone at the most ridiculous hours, and she kept trying to lure me into her stateroom. It’s not that I wasn’t attracted to her, but I wasn’t about to go there, you know? I was so one-minded on making it then, on getting to wear the captain’s hat one day. The problem was I was still in such a dark place. Anyway, one day the charter guest tried to kiss me, and I guess I kissed her back a little. I don’t know…the moment ran away with me. And then the cook—this girl named Tess—happened to see us from the galley. It looked bad, Jones. It was bad.

  “Tess and I had had this little thing, and it didn’t end well. Anyway, yachting is an incestuous industry by its nature, and Tess ran to the captain. When the captain came down to see what was going on, the woman who’d been pursuing me denied she’d started it, and I just…”

  “You snapped,” Joey said quietly.

  “I snapped. I totally snapped. This job was the only thing I had in the world, and now my integrity was being threatened.” Leo nibbled so slowly on a Cinnamon Toast Crunch square he was like some Top Chef judge teasing out its subtle notes. “I’m still so ashamed about what happened. I was in such a frenzy, and I shouted at the woman, You’re the one who wanted me!” His eyes grayed. “You know that’s not me, Jones. It’s so not me to shout at a woman, or to get into some inappropriate work romance.”

  “I know.” She wanted to touch him but couldn’t bring herself to.

  “I got fired. For a long time after, no one would hire me. Those were rough times, but finally I got back on my feet. I had to take a step back, do the deckhand thing again. A Russian hired me. One of the new tycoons who didn’t know the European scene. So I started over. But more than that, I finally clawed myself out of this hole I’d allowed myself to descend into. One night, I looked at myself in the mirror and said, Are you going to let what happened define you?”

  “You weren’t talking about the woman on the yacht,” Joey whispered.

  “No. No, I wasn’t. So I decided that no, I wasn’t going to let what happened on Corfu define me. I was going to try to stop being so angry. You know…I meditate morning and night. Almost twelve years now. Yoga too.”

  “My therapist always tells me to meditate. I’ve tried a few times, but my mind is too crazy.” Her mind was a pressure cooker now, about to blow up between her ears. Joey thought about how Leo had once sat there with her zigzags. How she’d felt like she could control the things pulsing inside her because he had witnessed them.

  Leo said, “I have this guru in Monaco. Jim. He’s Australian. The kindest, wisest guy. He says the crazier your mind, the more you need to meditate.”

  “Well, my mind’s been an insane asylum ever since you got into town so…”

  They both laughed. And as Joey picked at the hole in her jeans and her head continued to pulse, she wondered why it had never occurred to her to give herself an ultimatum too. “I think I let it all define me,” she said.

  “What?” asked Leo, slurping up the last of his cinnamon-y milk.

  “Nothing.” But suddenly Joey couldn’t pretend anymore. She kneaded her hands together. “You know, after we broke up, the pain was so…well, bad. Not to make you feel guilty. It was just a really dark time in my life, and to cope, I used to…well, binge.”

  “Binge as in, eat?” Leo stacked their cereal bowls and leaned back on his elbows on the pavement, seemingly unfazed at her confession.

  “Yeah. I had gotten it under control finally, you know? It took years, but it felt handled. Behind me. And then with you coming back and all this stuff about my mom and Rand and Lily, not to mention the wedding, I’ve…well, I’ve—”

  “You’ve eaten some stuff?” Leo wasn’t trying to be funny, she knew, but he was smiling.

  Joey gave a small smile back. “Just once. But yeah.”

  “You wanna know what I think, Jonesey?”

  “I do,” she said quietly.

  “I think you’re not perfect,” he finally said, and for the briefest of moments, he put his hand on top of hers. “And I think you’re perfect that way.”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Joey

  Florida

  2019

  The morning after her bachelorette party, on her way home from Boca Beach, Joey called her best friend. Siya answered on the first ring. “Abrams, what the hell?”

  The shout rattled Joey’s head. “Indoor voice, por favor.”

  “I can’t use my indoor voice when you’ve been keeping bombshells from me.”

  “I know.” Joey cringed. “I’m sorry.”

  “Does Grant know?”

  Joey’s stomach turned over itself, because of the special bachelorette cupcakes that had been waiting in her hotel room when she’d returned there alone, that she’d devoured one after another. Because of everything. “Grant knows. But it’s not like that.”

  As she drove down Federal, she unloaded the whole shebang. For a while, there was only silence in her earbuds—so all Joey heard was the guy outside dressed in a hot dog costume, talking in a strange voice that was presumably that of a hot dog, distributing flyers by the Publix where she’d gone with Leo the night before.

  “So Lily doesn’t know?” Siya finally asked.

  “Not yet. I can’t…oh God. I wish I could do something to protect her from it.”

  “I can’t believe your mom. I wish you’d told me sooner, Jo.”

  “I just…it’s been a lot the past couple, few days. Si…I’ve been bingeing again.” Siya would know what that meant. How hard Joey had worked to free herself, and here she was, right back there again.

  Silence for a while on the other end. Finally Siya said, “Joey, you know what I think?”

  “That I’m falling apart?” she whispered.

  “No. Not at all.” Siya said it so fiercely that Joey almost believed it. “What I think is that you’re basically the strongest person to deal with all this right now. And it’s so unfair it’s come before your wedding. But you still get to have a happy ending. That part, the most important part, hasn’t changed.”

  “Yeah. I guess.”

  “I know. And you know what a binge means, if we drill it down?”

  “I’m going to look gross in my dress?”

  “No, Jo. Stop. It means you ate a lot of food. That’s all. You don’t need to assign it some profound meaning.”

  “I ate a lot a lot.”

  “So, you ate a lot a lot. So fucking what? If I was in your shoes, there wouldn’t be enough pizza in the world. I think what you’re forgetting is that there’s a cycle to everything. A beginning, a middle, and an end. And maybe you’re in the middle right now, of something, but there’s no law that says you have to leap to the end. Because you have to wade through the middle first.”

  “But I don’t want to be in the middle anymore! How do you know I’m even going to get to the end?”

  “Maybe the end is overrated. And also maybe we’re talking in riddles now. The bottom line is you and Grant, forever. Just stay focused on that.”

  “Yeah.” As Joey said it, a song came on. She didn’t know what song exactly, because songs, their lyrics and their titles, had always eluded her. She only knew that she’d heard it a hundred million times, and its familiar happy tune confided something small.

  “Jo, can you promise me you’ll stop beating yourself up? That you’ll cut yourself some slack.”

  Joey gazed down at her puffy stomach. “I’ll try. Si, can I…?�
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  “I just got home. Get your butt over here.”

  So Joey did.

  * * *

  The evening after the bachelorette party, Joey was sprawled out in a tangle of sketchbooks, paints, pencils, and a canvas when Edith trailed down the hall. Joey shot up. On Edith’s arms were bangles the size of bricks, giving her the appearance of a shackled marionette.

  Her hand on the door, Edith turned. “You do realize the event is in three days? And you do realize…the wall is still blank.”

  Joey could barely get out the words. “I do.”

  “Mmm.” Edith hobbled out without a backward glance.

  At the door’s click, Joey sank back to the floor. The navy wood floor with which she’d become intimately familiar.

  Joey’s phone rang.

  “Hi, Dad.” She wedged the phone between her ear and shoulder. “I’m at Edith’s.”

  “JoJo! Real quick. Lily told me Leo’s in town.” Joey froze. “Leo Winn.”

  “Yes.” Her pencil slipped from her grip. “Leo’s here for the wedding.”

  “I had no clue you were still in contact with him! How wonderful. I haven’t seen Leo in…oh, it must be—”

  “Fifteen years.”

  “Fifteen years! My goodness. You must invite Leo over for dinner this week.”

  “Oh, I don’t think so. Leo has work stuff this week, and I’ve got Edith’s and last-minute wedding—”

  “Tuesday night works though, right? Lily told me Leo was planning to come to you and Grant on Tuesday night. So that night should be clear for all three of you. And now you won’t have to cook, or Grant won’t have to, so I’ll take something off your to-do list. I’ll barbecue, and we’ll all catch up! Just like old times.”

  “Uh…” She grappled for an excuse, but none arose. “I’ll see if it works for Leo.”

  “Of course it will work for Leo. Just find out, he hasn’t gone vegetarian on me?”

  “I’ll find out, Dad. I gotta go.”

  Joey hung up, her head in a tailspin. There was the family dinner with potential bombs abounding. There was the white wall in front of her. There were oils, a bamboo stick, a long piece of charcoal, and her notebook of evil eyes. One of the eyes caught hers. Maybe it spoke to her.

  Joey thought of the email that had arrived from Demetris. She’d contacted him in a panic. She was going to fail, and in turn, she would be defined by this failure. By Edith, by Lily, by critics, by Vogue, sure, but worse, by herself. She was going to give up on herself, and then who would be left believing in her?

  When was the last time you were inspired, paidi mou? My advice is simply to follow your curiosity. If you fail, fail epically. Fail having placed your heart on the platter. Fail having said to your brain, Brain, you and I need a little break now so I can create.

  Or maybe you won’t fail, Joey mou. Imagine that. Allow yourself to entertain the idea that maybe everything in your life has prepared you for this. And remember, an artist delights herself first. She pleases herself, first. She has fun. She has great fun. Remember that, paidi mou, and fly.

  Joey watched the waves ripple through the window. She knew what she had to do. She selected a pencil and walked to the ladder propped against the wall.

  She began to climb.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Sarah

  Florida

  2019

  Sarah was in the midst of a raging sea. She plunged again below the surface, the waves thrashing her as if she were an insignificant rope of kelp. She kicked her feet in a fight to the top that mustered every last ounce of her will, because Benjamin was there. Benjamin needed her, and this time she would save him.

  She made it to air. Her ears emptied water and heard, “Sarah!” It was unmistakably her brother’s shriek. “Sarah!”

  Sarah swam in the direction of his voice, but at every stroke, the ocean slammed her back. Oh no, you don’t. Who do you think is in charge here? Our waves need to move, and you are standing in our way.

  “Sarah!”

  She was choking on the salt, or maybe her own tears. Why was Benjamin swimming in the dark? She had to get to him! She could make him out now, head bobbing in white froth—his translucent skin, his lively blue eyes.

  Suddenly, he stopped moving. He met Sarah’s eyes. He didn’t smile—just blew her a little kiss. Then in an instant, the entire ocean stopped. Halted. Stilled. It was all a pool of nothing, and Benjamin was gone.

  Sarah sprang up in bed. Her mouth grappled for air. And as the air hit her lungs, she felt that dormant swell of pain—like she was stealing a breath that belonged to her baby brother.

  My dear Milos, It is the middle of the night and I cannot sleep. So much is plaguing me, I almost can’t bear it. And perhaps worst of all—I am writing to thin air. I am writing my deepest feelings to be returned only by little faces and hearts. It isn’t enough, Milos! I want to hear from you. I want you to find someone who can type English to me. Someone you trust to bare your own deep feelings to transcribe them. I want more than a little house with a shrub next to it, Milos. That was trite, as far as those little things you send me go.

  I could use a hug, Milos. A very long hug. I haven’t been hugged tightly, long, so you can hear the other person’s heartbeat, in—oh, Milos, it’s been a lifetime. You want to know a sad secret? Sometimes I get a massage just to feel a hand on my skin that is not my own.

  Well, Milos, we’ve gotten this far, eh? It is black outside, and inside too. There is nothing more to do than write.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Sarah

  Corfu

  1944

  In June 1944, Sarah had not heard a word from her family in over a year, and a film played constantly in her head. In it, Benjamin barreled toward her, his cheeks rosy and his eyes dancing with light. Her parents followed closely behind, so that soon all three sets of arms wrapped around her, fusing her back inside her family. Sarah soaked in their familiar smells: her mother’s perfume she made by crushing petals from her beloved pink roses; the meaty tinge to her father’s breath that lingered after a meal, when he sucked the marrow out from the lamb.

  But the scent she imagined the most was the sweet sweat of her little brother, and in her movie, she hungrily dipped her face to his raspberry curls. Benjamin wasn’t a climber or a traipser or a runner; his sweaty perfume derived from all the energy he expended with his nose inside books. He would read Robinson Crusoe and get worked up from the excitement of spearing fish by hand even when he was too afraid to poke a toe in the sea.

  In Sarah’s wishful daydream, her parents accepted Milos. The Germans, their long separation—all of it had lent time to building new understanding. Her being with a Christian man was no longer an insurmountable problem. She still believed in happy ever after then. She just had to look forward and trust that soon her movie would be real.

  Sarah was still in her movie when Costas and his grandson walked into the cheese lady’s shop. The house was stifling, with the mingling of ovens and a hotter-than-normal June. The air Costas let in from outside, even steaming, was a welcome fan to Sarah’s face.

  Costas fingered his thick gold chain with its ruby cross nestled in the bird’s nest of his chest hair. “Hello, Sarah. Wonderful to see you.”

  “And you, Costas. Bobota with orange zest today?”

  “Wonderful,” he said, as usual acting as though the cornmeal loaf were as grand as his prior baklava.

  His grandson raised on his tiptoes to peer over the counter. “Kourabiedes, please.”

  Sarah almost salivated at the memory of kourabiedes cookies—buttery shortbread made with local almonds and dusted with icy sugar. Sarah used to think their recipe to be overly sweetened, but the cheese lady had liked it that way. So had the grandson.

  “I’m afraid we don’t have kourabiedes now.”

  The boy frowned.

  “Soon, when the war is over.” Costas patted his grandson’s shoulder. “In the meantime, we have tasty bobota.”<
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  “Mama makes bobota.” The grandson sighed and sank into a seat.

  “Don’t tell your mother, but this bobota is the best there is.” Costas winked at Sarah, and then his face sagged. “I have terrible news to share, I’m afraid. The Jews of Corfu are here.”

  Sarah’s hands froze over the table as she set down the plates of bobota. There had been word of another bout of bombings over Corfu that had caused her to nibble her fingernails to bone. Later, Sarah would understand the bombs were the work of the Americans, intended to be a diversion from their Normandy landings. “Is it because of the bombings?”

  “Unfortunately, it does not have to do with the bombings.”

  “What do you mean then, the Jews of Corfu are here?”

  For a few terrible moments, Costas didn’t speak because he had bobota in his mouth. Her friend was too polite to speak about Sarah’s family with a mouthful of crumbs. Finally, he said, “They’ve rounded up the Jews of Corfu. Oh Sarah, it’s just terrible.”

  Sarah felt her hands move and her feet step, and yet her extremities seemed divorced from her core. Time stretched and bloated. Finally, she managed to say, “Rounded them up to go where?”

  “Nowhere good, I’m certain about that.” Costas tipped his head up toward the crumbling ceiling that sometimes shed powder onto Sarah’s ugly maroon dress, gifted by Milos’s mother. Sarah had tailored it to her body that had subsequently fleshed out from consuming the things she was baking. But with the cruelties and hardships of the German occupation, the dress now fit once again.

  “I don’t understand. How could…how…” Sarah tried not to betray her emotion. As Milos reminded her incessantly, the fact of her Jewishness had to be assiduously concealed. But Costas was talking about her parents and Benjamin like they were a period at the end of a sentence that was already written.