In the bright bathroom light, he looks gray and drawn and guilty as hell. A vein is pulsing in his jaw, and the lines in his face have become long, deep grooves from either side of his nose down to his mouth. It's over for him. There's no more protecting him, trying to look out for him. He's done it now, fallen for my flaky sister's helpless act, given in to her.
Poor, poor Teddy, I think, you poor idiotic bastard. You have no idea what you've just done to your life. I've tried to help you through so much, but even I can't save you from this one.
Casey McMillen gets up much earlier than you'd think. By 7:00 a.m., he's gotten his newspaper and started reading it, and has even made it to the inside page where the "Eeek!" column resides. I know this because, by 7:03, he's called and fired me.
The phone conversation we have is very one-sided. Lots of sputtering, lots of expletives, a great deal of yelling. I have to hold the phone far away from my head so that my eardrum can stay intact—which is fine, since I can't get a word in edgewise anyway. He's shocked and appalled at such fucking deviousness... there are no fucking words... he can't believe it... the fucking audacity! To send him a fucking decoy column and then go there in the fucking middle of the goddamn night and say the fucking opposite of what we'd agreed upon... incredible fucking insubordination... can't find the brain cells necessary to comprehend this, this fraud. I'm to come in later today and clean out my fucking desk, take down my fucking pictures, get my fucking philodendron, and get out. And he's keeping the fucking Rolodex! I shouldn't even think of keeping that.
I can't help it. I say that I don't even want my Rolodex. What good is a Rolodex to an advice columnist? I tell him good riddance to all of it, and when I hang up, I'm singing, "Take This Job and Shove It." Frankly, I haven't had all that much sleep. I'd lain awake going back and forth between thinking about Dana and Teddy and thinking about what was going to happen at work. Now, at a little after seven, I'm feeling almost grateful to know how at least one of those scenarios is going to play out.
Also, as I put the phone down, I realize that I'm perhaps a little bit—oh, untethered. Wild, perhaps. Free for the first time in my whole life, is what it feels like; it's as if a big bomb has just landed and blown my whole life apart, and now there are huge, airy caverns that are mine for the filling. There's devastation, that's for sure, but for now the room seems to have so much more air in it than I remember. Frankly, I can't believe how huge the world seems right now, how lit up. I shake my head. I feel like a coal miner being brought up into the light.
I make myself a cup of strong coffee and then go upstairs and wake up Simon.
"It's the first day of school!" I sing to him, opening his curtains and letting in the sunlight. A Sunfish skims across the Sound. It still looks like a summer day out there, not a school day—and Simon still looks like a preschooler, not a kindergartener. But there you have it. The world is moving on. I still look like an advice columnist for a newspaper, too, and somebody who was once living a calm, orderly, uptight existence. And now I'm neither of those things. And yet I'm still me. How extraordinary this is!
I snuggle with Simon for as long as he'll allow it. I have this gut feeling that it's all about him and me now; we're the only ones I have to look out for. Then I look at the clock and, my goodness, we've got to get moving. His first day of school ever, and we're already running late. We both zoom around the room, laughing, racing to pick out his clothes and gather up his new backpack, his brand-spanking-new Spider Man sneakers, his markers and crayons. Then we hurry downstairs and I fix his favorite breakfast—oatmeal with blueberries—and we're about to go stand outside and wait for the school bus, when I get a great idea, the greatest idea ever.
I stoop down to his level and hold onto his arms. "What if I drive you to school today? That way I can go in with you and say hello to your teacher. Won't that be fun?" I tell him. He looks doubtful. He'd looked forward to the ride on the school bus; he'd even rehearsed it. Evidently, though, he can see that I'm a little insane this morning because he doesn't argue. I run upstairs and comb out my hair, brush my teeth, put on some lipstick and blusher, and—oh, yeah, at the last minute I remember to put on my best underwear and change out of my T-shirt and into a pair of jeans and a white blouse—and off we go.
Miss Simone, his teacher, is exceptionally nice, so nice that she's willing to abandon her personal fashion sense and wear a Winnie the Pooh smock that makes her look like she's an overgrown kindergartener herself. I inspect the classroom and ooh and aah at the bulletin boards and the round blue rug the children will sit on for Circle Time, and admire the weather board and the fish tank and the cage that will hold a hamster when the class gets one. Miss Simone has black fluffy hair and a singsongy voice for speaking to children, and when she smiles, her eyes get so squinty you wonder if she can see out of them.
When at last it's Circle Time and Miss Simone looks as though she might like to handle the class single-handedly from now on out, I blow kisses to Simon and his twenty-two fellow students, and then I run to my car. I drive straight to Alex's house.
My heart is beating so fast when I ring his doorbell that I think I might pass out. But it's not from fear; that's what I realize as I'm waiting for him. I hear his footsteps coming down the stairs, and I straighten my smile. I'm not one bit afraid of what's about to happen. I'm just anxious to get on with my life, like I'm in overdrive or something. I feel braver, in fact, than I have ever felt before. When it comes to love, you have to make your own luck.
And sure enough, when he opens the door, holding a mug of coffee, I just step inside and take the mug out of his hands very carefully and place it on the floor. My hands are shaking just the tiniest little bit. And then I straighten up and turn to him, smiling, and reach up on tiptoes to be kissed. The last thing I see before I close my eyes is his amazed expression.
***
I haven’t had sex for four thousand years or so, but my body is pretty sure it remembers what to do. My mind is not as certain. Even back when I was still having sex, it wasn't like this—never with somebody I was falling in love with. I am so manic, so out of control that it's all I can do not to start barking and running around the room with my underwear in my mouth. I feel as though part of my mind is hovering somewhere up by the ceiling watching the rest of me have sex, and I try to remember how to slow myself down. I take deep breaths, concentrate on Alex's warm, soft skin, his lips, his eyes, let myself feel the sensations of being touched.
Afterward, we lie there for a long time with my head resting on his chest, and gradually my heart stops flinging itself against my ribs like some kind of caged animal that wants out of this body. I can't believe how wonderful he smells, or how cozy his bed is—like a nest with its soft cotton sheets and cascade of pillows—or how comforting it is just to hear his deep breathing. I need sleep, but I can't close my eyes. Every time I try to let myself rest, they fly back open as though they are spring-loaded.
"So," he says after a long while, "did you get really bludgeoned by Casey? Was it so bad that you needed some love therapy?"
"You knew?"
"Well, Lily, it's not hard to guess." He laughs a little bit. "I've never seen you like this. I figured something bad had happened."
I swallow. "Nah. It wasn't bad at all. Just a lot of sputtering, overheated, roosterish outrage. You kidding? I was expecting it, after what I did." I sit up in bed and act out an imitation of Casey screaming curse words into the phone, which makes Alex laugh. "A colony has revolted, and King Casey will not tolerate such insubordination. 'You will pick up your things and get out. And don't you dare take that Rolodex!' The fucking Rolodex, as I believe he called it. Who knew that was the technical term?"
"Ah, the Rolodex?" he says, cracking up. "I guess that's so you won't call up people to offer them freelance advice now that you're not on staff anymore."
"I suppose. Who knows what he thinks I might do?" I settle back down on his pillows.
"So you're all right? Really?" He turns o
ver and looks at me closely. His eyes are so tender and concerned I have to look away.
"Oh, I'm totally fine," I say. "I'm actually relieved, if you want to know the truth. It was unconscionable of him to think he could dictate what a letter should say."
"That's good," he says and hugs me. We lie there a moment more, then he says, "Say, you wanna get a bite to eat? I'm not positive what's in that scary kitchen of mine, but I'm pretty sure I can offer up some Cheez Doodles and perhaps, if we're really lucky, some not-very-stale potato chips."
It turns out he also has five eggs and some cheddar cheese, so he sets to making us an omelet while I make us some toast. Then I wander around the kitchen, which is not scary, just old-fashioned. It has Depression-era cabinets and fixtures, a stained porcelain sink, and a cracked red linoleum floor that's worn away to nothing in spots. You can see the old wood of the original floor underneath. One long window with a tattered yellowish shade looks out onto his backyard, where there's a tire swing hanging from a maple tree and a tiny garden patch growing vegetables. From here, I can see there are four other rectangular backyards bumping up against his, all divided by fences and filled with trees and grass and plastic lawn furniture.
He sees me looking. "Not much like Branford and the beach," he says.
"A city backyard," I say lightly.
"So... tell the truth now. No regrets at all? Really? It's hard to be fired, even for a good cause."
"Nope. No regrets."
I'm feeling drained and shaky. I must be hungry. I'll feel fine again when we eat. He puts the omelet on the table with the salt and pepper shakers, and gets us plates from an overhead cabinet. "I only have these cracked and chipped old-lady dishes," he says to me over his shoulder. "Anneliese and I packed up all our plates before we moved here—before, that is, I moved here and she made the sudden decision to live with Daddy-o in D.C. And then, when it became clear she wasn't joining me, I couldn't see the point of unpacking all that crap and playing house by myself. So I just use what's here."
I realize my head stopped really hearing him after the word Anneliese. I'll have to get used to that, the fact of her. That he's actually married. Here I am, standing in his kitchen naked under a T-shirt of his, and he just goes and mentions her name as though it's the most natural thing in the world that he has a wife. It is important, I think, not to flinch. Not to show any emotion. I clamp down on any stray feelings that might show up on my face.
He gets forks and knives and spoons out, and then pours us cups of reheated coffee and motions for me to sit. He sits down next to me and clears his throat.
"Okay," he says. "I mention her name as a way of gracefully segueing into the fact that she filed the papers last week." He pours some cream into his mug. "So it looks like I'm going to join the ranks of divorced humans. I thought you should know. If you're going to, you know, be getting into my bed from time to time." He smiles at me.
"Okay." I take a deep breath and wonder if I have the strength to say this whole sentence. "Well, if we're telling stuff, then I should tell you that I found out last night from Teddy that Dana is pregnant and that he's the father."
"Holy shit." He puts down his fork and looks at me for a very long time, searching my face. Outside, a siren wails in the distance—a city noise. When it dies down, he says quietly, "I think I'd better call the radio station and tell them I'm not coming in until the afternoon. Do you want to go back to bed?"
WE SPEND the next few hours in bed. I don't really want to talk about Teddy and Dana, I tell him. She's insane. She leads people on, she doesn't stick to any one thing. She'll be leaving Teddy soon, probably even before the baby is born. Hell, by the time I get home, I'll probably find out she's broken up with him already. I laugh, too shrilly. That's just the way she is: she tries on lives. And now she's come here, noticed that my life is pretty good, and decided to make the same one for herself. She's even picked out the same father for her kid. Can you beat that?
Then I laugh again. "For somebody who doesn't want to talk about something, I've said way too much. I'm just going to forget about it now. End of subject."
He strokes my arm. "You must have felt so blown away," he says. "I mean, think of it—you got fired from your job and got this news about your sister, all in one twelve-hour period."
"Well," I say, "eight hours, really."
He gives a low whistle. "You've got post-traumatic stress disorder. We have to take care of you."
Eeeeasy, don't cry. Don't let yourself fall into feeling bad. Remember that you're really strong, remember how life is going to fall into place now. When it comes to loving—how does that go again? You make your own luck. I am here, making my own luck.
"No, it's fine, really. It's got to be some kind of cosmic collision taking place, just loosening all these fake little bonds that were holding me. I feel so free and so strong right now. I've got to tell you, I feel wonderful. Really."
"Well," he says, "that's amazing, I guess."
When we make love again, it's different—not so many of the fever gremlins jumping in and directing things. Less of me is floating up near the ceiling, and more of me is right there in the bed with him. Still, though, I know I have to hold back. I don't want to let everything out, all that pain that's lying in wait deep down in my stomach. It could spill over, and I could scald him.
When it's time for me to go, he walks me to the door and then pulls me to him. "Okay, Wonder Woman, let me just tell you one thing. I know you're the strongest woman alive, but this is still a crazy time in your life. Promise me that if you get to feeling all wacky and can't stay in that house with those free-loving bacchanalian parents-to-be, you'll come here."
"Oh, no. I'm staying there," I tell him. "It's my house. No matter what else happens, it is my house."
29
Okay, so it is my house, but it's the damnedest thing: I get in my car and I find I don't actually want to go to it. Not just yet. I drive around town listening to furious revenge songs on the radio. It's amazing how many of them there are; I flip around, and on nearly every station I can find somebody screaming about somebody else just about to get some justice rained down on their heads.
Then, when it's nearly time for school to let out, I park in the circular driveway in front of the building and take my place in the foyer with all the other parents doing pickups. The school smells just like it did when I went here—and what is that odor anyway? It's got to be a mixture of mimeograph ink, old textbooks, floor cleaner, and, of course, the pervasive odor of the cafeteria's always-simmering vegetable soup. And chalk. Funny how this never changes, how you could be blindfolded in the desert thousands of miles away, and you'd recognize the smell of your elementary school hallway.
There's a pink plastic barrette in the shape of a bunny on the floor. I lean down and pick it up. Another thing that never changes. Why, I remember walking down this hall when I was in kindergarten—the doors were so much bigger back then—walking from the school bus with Maggie. She always wore just these kinds of barrettes in her smooth pageboy hair, and I was so envious of how they always matched her outfits. Sometimes, if she was wearing a dress that didn't have corresponding barrettes, she explained to me, she would have to wear white ones. But mostly that didn't happen. There were so many colors, and Maggie's mother kept a whole basket of barrettes on the counter in the bathroom. They selected the correct pair each morning, right before her mother curled Maggie's hair just slightly underneath, a perfectly smooth roll.
My mother didn't believe barrettes were necessary, especially these colored animal-shaped plastic ones with the little clasp on the back. She liked girls to wear ponytails—neat, clean, off the face, she said.
But oh, how I wanted some for myself. I ached for barrettes. And then one day on the bus, Maggie opened her book bag, smiled shyly, and handed me her white pair. Without a word, she helped me loosen my ponytail just enough so that I could clasp a barrette onto either side of my head. From then on, we had a system: she'd call me in the
morning to see what color I had on, and each day she would smuggle a matching pair of barrettes out of her house without her mother knowing it, and then I would give them back to her on the homeward bus. I think that was when I knew Maggie was going to be my best friend for life.
"Excuse me, are you all right?" a mom standing next to me asks. Her face is filled with concern. I realize that I'm holding this pink bunny barrette and tears are running down my cheeks. I start to tell her I'm fine, but suddenly I'm sobbing so hard I can't speak.
What has just hit me is that Maggie and Dana are having babies at the same time, that someday it will be their little children, not mine, walking together down this hallway, navigating their way through the mysterious rules that adults adhere to. It might even be two little girls, sharing a barrette just like this one.
Dana, who has never committed to a thing, has just swooped down and carried off something else that belonged to me. And I am blinded by the pain of it all.
***
Dana avoids me for days. Apparently she's moved in with Teddy, which is fine by me. The less I have to do with her right now, the stronger I feel. I am dreading my first encounter with her. And then one day I come home from the grocery store, and she's standing in my kitchen making a smoothie—and a big mess. Strawberries, blueberries, yogurt, and honey are spilled all over the counter, while she has the blender on full blast, attempting to grind up ice cubes.
When I come in, she looks up, startled, and then I see her carefully rearrange her features into something of a smile.
"Turn it to medium before you burn out the motor," I tell her, and go outside to get more grocery bags from the car. My hands are so clammy the handles of the plastic bags stick to my palms. But I take a deep breath and go back inside.
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