A Stitch of Time

by Lauren Marks

  My soul goes blindly seeking, seeking, asking.

  Nothing answers.

  I cry out after some unknown thing

  with all the strength of my being

  every nerve and fiber in my young woman’s body

  and my young woman’s soul

  reaches and strains in anguish.

  At times waves of intense, hopeless longing rush over me,

  my heart, my soul, my mind go wandering, wandering

  groping with helpless hands

  pursued by a demon of unrest

  I shall go mad

  I shall go mad

  I say over and over to myself

  but no.

  No one goes mad.

  The demon of unrest does not propose to release any of us.

  He looks to it that our senses are kept fully intact.

  So Spencer could get back to work, Rachel could be starting her second book, and I couldn’t read a damn doctor’s report. The interactions with these people close to me were fulfilling in so many ways, and their love for me was never in doubt, but being around them needled at me as well, because I was given an opportunity to measure out the vast distances between their lives and my own. It was my new demon of unrest.

  9

  It was difficult to understand what my brother was saying. It was still so early and I wasn’t fully awake yet. As I pushed the phone closer into my ear, I heard him explain that Amber had been involved in a minor car accident. She was fine, but in pain and refusing to go to the hospital. Amber yelped in the background. Mike asked my parents if he could bring her home, and asked me if I had any leftover painkillers that might help. We all leaped into action.

  My head was still tender, but I hadn’t needed any of the codeine that had been prescribed since the operation, so I brought the bottle downstairs. My parents and I turned on the lights in the kitchen, all of us jittery, fearing a repeat of my brother’s birthday. As Mike’s car arrived, I heard Amber yelling at him from the driveway. Idiot! You fucking baby!

  She took no notice of our assembled family as she slammed the back door open. The smell of alcohol on her was overpowering.

  Mike carefully closed the door in her wake and looked up at us in shame.

  I’m sorry, he said. I didn’t know where else to take her.

  Amber’s eye makeup and lipstick were smudged across her face, her hair in a gnarl. Her left leg was visibly dragging. The foot on that leg displayed a scratched purple bruise, badly bandaged with toilet paper, which created its own train like an unraveling mummy. We tried to ask Amber what had happened, but she slumped on the far corner of the couch, continuing to ignore us, and cursed my brother again.

  In a near stupor, Amber started to fish around in her purse until she found her phone. Her aggressive tone completely dissolved when someone picked up on the other side of the line—Mom? Amber asked softly. Mommy?

  The new kindness of her voice was reflected in her face, too. She was small and plaintive. I saw a child’s face emerging under that trembling lip. She was hurt, and she just wanted to come home. Would her mother drive across town and pick her up?

  Instead, her mother hung up on her.

  Devastated, Amber flung her phone onto the floor and let out a raspy moan. My mother grabbed some of the couch cushions to prop up Amber’s foot, and placed an ice pack from the freezer on top of it. My dad picked out some ibuprofen, and whispered to me to put away my painkillers because it was dangerous with that much alcohol in her system. Mike got her water. While everyone tended to her, Amber continued to call him names. Pathetic little faggot was a term in heavy rotation. And I was seriously taken aback. Mike had told me Amber could get aggressive, but I had never heard it myself.

  The tension in the room felt potentially explosive, and looking toward my parents, I sensed they felt the same way. But none of us said much. Not yet. Amber was in a furor, and no one wanted to change too many elements around her, for fear of an even more overwrought outpouring.

  I thought of Rachel, who was sleeping in the room downstairs only a few yards away. She was a notorious insomniac, and I suspected she was overhearing all of this. There would be a lot to explain in the morning.

  Amber was becoming less and less coherent, and while one part of me remained alert and attentive dealing with a woman in obvious pain, another part of me was relaxed. The tension, which had been building since my brother’s phone call, had largely dissipated because of how he was behaving now. Amber was drunk, but Mike was sober. She was goading him, trying to send him into a rage, but he wasn’t taking the bait. He sat in the armchair a few feet away, a little shell-shocked.

  What a worthless piece of shit you are, she said to him. I mean, really. A total fucking waste of space.

  It was just too much for me. A sudden, animalistic sense of protection overcame me. I grabbed for Amber’s birdlike shoulders, and my reaction seemed to surprise both of us because she put up no resistance.

  You are in pain and I want to help you with that. I do. But you are talking to my brother, who I love and will always love. I will help you with your damn foot, but only if I don’t have to deal with your damn mouth.

  Amber was stunned into silence, and though she briefly criticized my brother again—ironically this time saying that he should grow some balls like his sister—she passed out soon after that. Mike stood vigil as she drifted in and out of consciousness, replacing the ice pack when it slipped off her leg, and making sure she didn’t choke in her sleep. He explained that he and Amber had been in a long and drawn-out breakup, and she had insisted they meet up to talk that night in a public space. She was already deliriously drunk when he arrived, and he decided he didn’t want to engage with her like that. He got into his parked car and she threw herself on the hood, hurling her shoe at the windshield. And as soon as her feet were firmly back on the asphalt, Mike turned on the car to leave before the situation got any worse. This was when Amber appeared at the driver’s-side window and started throwing punches. She knocked his recently lit cigarette out of his mouth, the glowing cherry dropping onto his jeans. As Mike described it, he didn’t turn on the gas, but in an attempt to pat out the fire, his foot leaped off the brake on a reflex. And even without any speed behind it, the entire weight of the car rolled over Amber’s bare foot.

  Horrified that Amber might be seriously injured, Mike called 911 right away. But when emergency services actually arrived at the scene, Amber kept insulting the police officers and refused to get into the ambulance. The police attempted to interview them both, but my brother told me Amber had been too drunk to cooperate, and had continued to rant and rave. There had been CCTV footage recorded in that parking lot, allowing the police to confirm Mike’s side of the story. They decided my brother was not at fault. No one was pressing charges and no one was being arrested.

  I cringed when I heard that police had been called in the first place, wishing it had never escalated to that point, but I was glad of the resolution.

  Did the police officers say anything else? I asked Mike.

  Actually, yeah, he said, shaking his head. They said I should find myself a new girlfriend.

  •  •  •

  The next morning, my family continued to look after Amber—my brother and my grandma especially. Gram set up a makeshift nurse station for Amber by the couch with a bucket, washcloth, gauze, hydrogen peroxide, and a giant tube of Neosporin. When Amber woke up the first time, my grandma expertly cleaned the wound. It was unclear if Amber could remember the events of the previous night, or if she was pretending she didn’t so she could save face. Either way, she interacted with all of us as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. Then she fell back asleep. And when Rachel emerged from the spare bedroom, I discovered that she had actually slept through the entire thing. She was headed back to New York later that day, but with Amber snoring on the couch in the kitchen, we decided to go out to breakfast. Mike and my father stayed behind because they wanted to take Amber to have a
proper checkup as soon as a doctor’s office opened, but my mother was happy to get out of the house.

  At Fox’s Diner, my mother poured hot milk in the strong drip coffee. As we explained some of what had happened the night before, Rachel looked incredulous.

  I can’t believe that girl didn’t try to sneak away when she sobered up a bit. Takes a lot of chutzpah not to slink out in the night or embark on her Limp of Shame in the morning, she said, looking at my mom. Suzanne, are you fine with this girl staying at your house?

  My mom picked at her cinnamon roll with a single tine of her fork, exhausted. It’s a balancing act with your children, she said. If you try to keep them away from something, or someone, they tend to run like hell in that direction. You’ve got to be as supportive as you can, and give advice only sparingly because if they marry a person they know you dislike, you’ll become the enemy. Given a choice between partner and parent, your kids might choose partner instead.

  Amber was hardly the ideal houseguest, but my mother refused to put her out while she was in pain, especially if she had nowhere else to go. My grandmother said almost the same thing. A doctor had examined Amber’s foot and said that nothing was broken, but she stayed with us for several days after that. I started to grumble about her not needing us any longer—for a physically small girl, she took up a lot of psychic space. But it was my father and brother who insisted on her staying until Amber herself decided that she was well enough to go back to her house.

  What kind of grace was it to have been born into a family like this?

  If this was not a question I asked myself that morning, it was one I have asked many times since. My brother and I, I realized, had won the parental jackpot. When I had my stroke in Scotland, my parents had come running. I was lucky to have a family that had the desire, the resources, and the will to look after me. I was going through all of the stages of my life with them all over again, this time starting like a toddler. This was a somewhat accelerated course, and my parents provided but were also careful not to coddle. As they had done before my injury, my parents let me make my own discoveries, my own mistakes, without ever asserting an expiration date of their support. They were giving me the tools to forge a fierceness of mind again. I was close with my family before the rupture, but I suspect that The Girl I Used to Be didn’t know how to manage this dynamic very well. She was neurotic, struggling to meet the demands of being a daughter and an older sister in such a close-knit family, while also wanting to fully differentiate herself from this powerful unit. Proof enough was the fact she moved three thousand miles away at her first opportunity. This time, my family members were coming to know each other as adults, and our dynamic was less like a hierarchy, more like an ecosystem. My mother and father had been willing to fly across the world when they knew their daughter was in danger. There were some parents who wouldn’t drive across town. I didn’t deserve these kinds of riches, but I knew I should appreciate it as long as I had them.

  •  •  •

  A few days later, after Amber had left, my own bags were packed, and I was almost completely ready to embark on my trip to New York. I was taking a break at the kitchen table, enjoying the warm breeze coming through the open windows, when my brother walked in. He double-checked that all of my suitcases were zipped.

  Looks like you are all raring to go, Sis, he said. How are you feeling?

  His words were incredibly simple, yet felt so extraordinary, that I couldn’t say anything at all.

  Earth to Lauren, my brother said, waving his arms in my direction.

  Could you repeat the question? I asked.

  Are you serious? he asked. All I asked was how you are feeling. . . .

  Again, I paused. I often had to ask people to repeat a phrase, especially if they were saying a word or words I hadn’t used since the rupture. Then I would try to mimic the unfamiliar sounds myself. This was totally different. People had asked me how I was doing, in this exact phrasing, ad nauseum. It had actually become white noise that I could tune out if I wanted to. But the phrase sounded newly minted when it was asked in my brother’s voice.

  I’m good, it’s just . . . I stammered. I’m ready to head out, if that is what you are asking. But I’m having this strange experience, Mike . . . because I really can’t remember the last time you asked me how I was doing. Was it before I left for Scotland?

  Now it was my brother’s turn for a brief silence.

  Huh, he said. That’s funny.

  Am I wrong about that? I asked him.

  Actually, I think you’re right. Weird.

  Well, if you haven’t asked me that question before, why would you start now?

  My brother said he needed a minute to think. Since I didn’t realize I was doing that, he said, I might need a moment to formulate an actual response. One in which I don’t sound like even more of a jerk . . .

  After a short deliberation, he nodded to himself. Okay, he said. Okay. So when this whole aneurysm thing started, it was kind of a horror show. I had to stay with Grandma when Dad and Mom flew to Edinburgh. When the operation was over, and you were still in the hospital, I had to go back to college. I had no way to process what was going on. Didn’t know who to talk to about it.

  I’m sorry you were alone then, Mike, I said.

  You shouldn’t have to apologize. You of all people, he said. But I was in this total daze then. Doing everything on autopilot. And I blurted out that you had a brain aneurysm rupture to some random classmate, and totally without thinking about what he was saying, that guy told me that no one lives through that. Or if they do, they end up as human vegetables.

  That’s pretty offensive, I said. Not to mention factually incorrect . . .

  Oh yeah, that guy is a total dick, he agreed. I knew he was a D-minus human even back then, but the threat took root with me. And when I did a little online research, everything seemed pretty bleak, so I couldn’t motivate myself to keep looking. And even Amber told me to get comfortable with you dying, like it was an inevitability. Mike shuddered. Maybe that’s the reason I never asked you how you were feeling. I probably didn’t want a direct answer because you might say something I didn’t want to hear. All the while, I just kept thinking that you still might die. You might die right in front of me.

  He shook his head. I know my relationship with Amber has been bonkers for a long time—and I’m sorry you guys have had to endure some of that because of me. I know now that there is no chance we can stay together. But in this really, really small way, I think that part of the reason I kept trying to help Amber is because I couldn’t help you.

  I had never thought about it this way. In these months of confusion, while I had been worrying about my brother’s safety and stability, he was worried about mine. And through a visibly dysfunctional relationship, he was also forging some well-earned resilience, and weathering more storms than I had realized. He was still experiencing growing pains, but I saw for the first time that he was emerging stronger on the other side. He was not someone I needed to care for in the way I used to; he was becoming someone who might occasionally care for me, too. He was making steps in that direction.

  I reached for my brother’s hand and apologized for the way I looked after the craniotomy, with the bloody eyes, the stitched skull. It had been out of my control, of course, but with that kind of fear stamped in his mind, it must have been so difficult for him to see me looking that battered.

  Actually, no, he said. It was sort of great to see you in the hospital. And it’s . . . it’s all different now.

  How? I asked. Why?

  I can’t tell you why, really. It’s not exactly logical. After Scotland, you looked good, but sounded bad, and after this surgery, you looked worse but sounded better. And for some reason I can’t exactly explain, I’m just not worried that you are going to die anymore.

  Oh no? I asked.

  No, he said firmly.

  That’s going to be hard to manage! I teased him a little. I can’t promise I won’
t die ever, Mike. . . .

  All right, he said. At some point, yes, you will. But not anytime soon. Mike leaned over and gave me a hug. I think you are going to be just fine.

  10

  In the second week of June, I headed to New York, hoping for a somewhat relaxing visit. But my social calendar had unexpectedly filled when word spread among my friends that I would be back in town. There were several people I had been in very sporadic contact with over this year, and others who had been the lifelines to my social life. BJ, Laura, Rachel, and Grace made sure we spent some quality time together. Jonah picked me up from JFK and brought me back to his apartment, carrying my suitcase up the three flights of stairs. While Los Angeles had already started its dry summer, New York was still mid-spring, the air crisp. Jonah sat down on the bed, while I looked in the direction of his crammed closet.

  Is there space for my stuff in there too? I asked Jonah.

  Oh, he said, still recovering his breath from the stairs. Um. You want to hang something up? Right now?

  I nodded.

  So Jonah quickly doubled up some shirts and freed a few hangers for me, but the space was too full for any new additions. He had a sturdy 1950s fan resting on a low bookshelf, and he ended up hanging a few of my dresses on its grate.

  Sorry I hadn’t thought about the closet space, Jonah said. That was a bozo move. I’m excited to have you here but I’ve never had any experience with living in the same room with someone else. Should I clean out a drawer for you too?

  This lack of planning didn’t rattle me much. Jonah’s entire presence was welcoming; there was alertness in his eyes, affection in his touch, and just having his body near mine was a physical assurance of his care. I couldn’t be numb to that. But it was disorienting to know that I had loved this person, in this exact place, but didn’t really have any clear memories of doing so.