Can we get lunch tomorrow? Nancy and I will be at the opera tonight.
xoxo
Your mother, Minnie
Email from: Willa Chandler-Golden
To: Theodore Brackton
Subject re: Hi
It’s okay if you stay. I actually think it’s kind of sweet.
—
Sleep refuses me that night. Raina’s out of Xanax, and the Ambien I found in her medicine cabinet while stealing some of her eye cream does nothing to help. I flop to one side, then I flop to the other, my mind like a million electrical wires, all interconnecting, all flipped on high. Shawn. Theo. My dad. The book. Good lord, wasn’t it all so much simpler way back when there was just Shilla and our plan and the notion of a baby? Even if I wasn’t sure that it’s what I wanted — motherhood and its complications and the guilt and the fear and the worry that comes with ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes. Still, it was easier. It was inertia. It was what should have been my master plan. It’s what should have been my fate. Fate doesn’t have to equal happiness, you know. Fate just has to be. Fate just is.
My mind drifts to Theo and my new fate and his question. What was it that he needed to ask me? What was it that he needed to know?
I start a list:
THINGS THEO WAS GOING TO ASK ME:
1. Do I still want to sleep with him after so many years? (Yes.)
2. Did I think about him even when I shouldn’t, even when I was married? (Yes.)
3. Do I understand what exactly this means? (No.)
4. Am I willing to throw caution in the wind and give him a chance? (Caution into the wind is not my strong suit.)
5. Do I still love Shawn? (Yes.)
6. Do I still love him? (Yes.)
7. Is that enough? (How do I know?)
Ollie shifts in the bed next to me, and then the nightstand light goes on, and he says:
“So I take it you’re going to keep me up all night?”
“I’m sorry. Insomnia.”
“Have you tried melatonin? It’s nature’s cure.”
“Shut up, Ollie.”
“Sorry.” He does sound truly sorry. “I can’t help it. It’s instinct.”
“Dad doesn’t believe in instincts, you know.”
We fall quiet, though he doesn’t turn off the light. I make bunny ears with my fingers, and the little rabbits hop along the wall.
Then he says: “I’m not trying to be annoying when I say this but you should exercise more. It would help with your stress.”
“I know. Vanessa said the same thing. She dared me to be able to run five miles. I think she’s, like, angling to make me enter a marathon or something. It’s a little preposterous that she doesn’t have to do any of this crap that I do.”
“She was born brave,” Ollie says.
And I can’t dispute that because she seemingly was. Which also made her too independent and maybe meant that she’d never settle down, settle in, but courage wasn’t the problem.
“Still, she could maybe start running with me.”
“Run alone. It’s quiet time. I work out a lot of my mental crap when I work out.”
“But I hate it.”
He says: “That’s a dumb excuse, Willa. You know that. You sound like you’re eight.”
“Neither of us is exactly an expert at taking responsibility.”
“Hey,” he says. “I’m employed! That’s responsibility.”
I tut: “You’re running celebrity yoga classes from Raina’s living room. And…that wasn’t what I mean. I meant responsibility.”
He doesn’t say anything for a while, so I waggle the bunny ears in the shadows. Quiet seeps into the room until he whispers:
“I really screwed the pooch.”
“A Chandler family specialty.”
“You’re kind of in deep shit yourself,” he says. “Falling for Theo when you’re still married.”
I sit up suddenly, the bunny ears no more.
“I’m not falling for Theo!”
“I read bodies for a living, Will. I know you think it’s BS, but I’m good at it.”
I flop back onto the pillow.
“I don’t think it’s crap. I just never had the same conviction.”
“I can’t disagree.” He doesn’t mean it rudely, I know.
“Does Raina know you did it?”
“More or less.” He rolls over onto his elbow and looks toward me. “But I did it with the best of intentions.”
“It was a shortcut.” I mirror him, up on my elbow now too.
“I was never good at the long-cut,” he states. “Responsibility was never either of our things.”
“I’m sure they’ll be more lenient for your good intentions.”
There’s not much more left to discuss after that, so eventually, we both lay back, and he flips off the light, though I know I’m no closer to dreaming than before. After a few minutes, I’m certain he’s asleep, his breath slowed, his body still.
But then he says:
“Willa, you know, it’s not too late.”
“What do you mean?” I stare up to the blackness of the ceiling.
“For conviction. For you to find it. If I can find responsibility, maybe you can find conviction.”
“Oh,” I say. “I don’t know.”
“Well, that’s your first problem,” he says. “If you don’t know something, ask.”
—
Theo picks up on the third ring. He’s groggy but I’m certain I didn’t rouse him. Theo never sleeps. I used to wake up in the middle of the night and find his pillow cold, then I’d pad into his kitchen to discover him hovered over the computer, fixing whatever needed to be fixed in the world. I’d fold my hands over his shoulders and try to help him relax, and maybe I’d make him a cup of tea, but eventually, he’d implore me to go back to sleep, and I reluctantly would. Though I never felt great about leaving him alone in the kitchen, never felt great about slipping into bed without my other half. With Shawn, I never had to worry about that. He was always there, next to me. Until he wasn’t. Until he was at Grape! or at golf or at God knows where now with Erica Stoppard. Theo welcomed space but never so much that he didn’t know where to find me, couldn’t make his way back to bed and vacuum up the distance. Shawn never needed space until suddenly, he needed an ocean.
“Hello?” Theo says tonight, his voice gravelly.
“Did I wake you?”
“No,” he says. “You know that I never sleep.”
“Can I come over?” I ask, tentatively, though I’m certain it’s the question I want to pose.
He hesitates, then says: “Yeah, of course. Is…are you okay?”
“I am okay,” I say just before hanging up. “I’m writing my map.”
—
Later, we discuss that this doesn’t mean anything big but also concede that maybe it could mean something big. But that I’m dealing with a lot and right now, I just want to forget about it all for a little bit and that we both totally understand and agree on everything.
I say that I’m not on the pill and I’m not very fertile anyway, and he says, well, I’ve been tested and am totally healthy and also, I only have one testicle, but we take no chances (because taking chances like this is really dumb and only proves my father’s theories correct) and he wears a condom, which he has stowed in his wallet.
The sex is sweet and surreal and sticky and a little weird and more tender than I remember it ever being with Shawn. I close my eyes when we’re done but then I remind myself to open them, that maybe I’ll see something I didn’t before. And I do: I see him. And I wonder why I didn’t say Y.E.S. to Seattle. How my whole life might have been different. How I wouldn’t have met Shawn, how I would have lived in Se
attle and grilled fresh salmon for dinner and become an avid Mariners fan and driven a Prius to the co-op for organic fruit.
Theo rolls off me and kisses me on the forehead like he really means it.
“I’m so glad you called.”
“Well,” I say. “You did just get laid.”
And we both laugh, and I feel like I’m in a romantic comedy, and the whole audience is cheering and weeping and rewinding their DVRs just to watch that amazing scene all over again.
And I am totally prepared to bask in that feeling forever, or at least until I wake up and realize that I just slept with my ex-boyfriend while I am still married (technically, but I’m following the “rules”) when Theo jolts up on his forearms and says: “Shit!”
And that’s when we both look down and realize that we really may be screwed.
Fate. Inevitability. Destiny. Meant to be.
The condom broke. (Of course.)
25
“I don’t want to do this,” I say to Vanessa.
“You never want to do anything,” she replies. “That’s the whole point.”
I groan and look down. About half a mile below and to the left of the bridge, I spot the Dare You! crew, with their cameras pointed toward us like Uzis. The producers thought that a DVD companion video would be a smash, so they’ve ordered us back atop the Brooklyn Bridge (the second time for Vanessa; I’m the virgin) for a healthy dose of insanity in which we plunge ourselves off and pray that this ridiculous cord that is now attached to my waist somehow saves us.
I steady myself on the rail and tilt myself halfway over. If I hover my rainbow cast over the railing and Instagram it, I could write something really witty about, like, a rainbow over the Brooklyn Bridge! But my cast is sad-looking now. The rainbow is faded and greyish, and I’m certain there is mold curdling on the inside, and it itches me to the point of insanity. Even rainbows can’t stay perfect forever.
“Remind me again why we’re doing this?”
“Because we’re contractually obligated. Also, it’s goddamn awesome.”
“You and I must have very different definitions of awesome,” I say. Vertigo sets in and the world skews to the right, and I quickly jump back to the walkway. “I suppose this is a bad time to tell you that I think I may have caused my father’s heart attack?”
“What?”
“My mom emailed me with the theory.”
“Jesus Christ,” she sighs.
“She wasn’t blaming me. If it’s any consolation, she thinks he’s a jackass.”
“So you’re blaming you?”
I exhale and let the hot July breeze fall over me. Maybe it can lift me up and carry me into a different, less complicated life.
“I’m saying that I feel responsible.”
An assistant comes over and tugs my harness so tight around my waist that I think I might lose consciousness.
“You’re good to go.” He pats me on the back, like this is totally normal. That sane people throw themselves off bridges every day without a care in the world. “Have fun!” he adds over his shoulder.
“Please,” Vanessa says to me, and I can tell she’s a little bit out of patience. “I love you, Willa, but I am getting a little sick of your orbit revolving around him. It’s your life. Fucking live it.”
“I am living it! Do you think I want to be up here on this bridge, basically doing the dumbest thing I’ve ever agreed to in my entire life? All because you dared me? All for some reality show?”
“This isn’t even close to the dumbest thing you’ve ever done in your life,” she says. And then the assistant is back, squeezing her harness, and we fall silent.
“Okay, cool,” he says, and then looks from one of us to the other. “Hey, don’t jump angry, man. It will kill the vibe.”
He makes this hang-ten symbol with his hand, and I wonder if he’s friends with Ollie, and then I spin quickly toward Vanessa.
“Well, if you’re keeping track of the dumbest things I’ve ever done, then you should know that I slept with Theo two nights ago.”
And her eyes bulge a little and she smirks just a touch, but before she can reply, another assistant pops in and screeches, “It’s go time! Let’s do this, ladies!!!!” And his enthusiasm makes me want to throttle him, but I have no choice. Because I am here, and I am under contract, and I am starting to think that I’m the worst daughter in the world, though my father is also the worst father in the world, but I think he’d agree (and probably write a chapter on it) that the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.
Vanessa goes first, because that’s what she’s always done in our friendship. Then it’s my turn. I’m certain I’m going to puke. I can feel my insides rising up, and I see my life in front of me — the Alps and Disneyland and Doc Martens and Theo and Shawn and everything else, too. I know that I’m going to die now. This is what happens to people before they die. I wonder if my dad also saw his own life in front of him, like a spread of Polaroids, when he was splayed and catatonic on 60th Street.
And then assistant number one is back. “Smile if you can remember! They’ll take a picture and send it to you!”
And then without warning, he yelps: “On your marks, get set, jump!”
And I murmur goodbye to this sweet life. But before I die, I try to muster the one thing that I would have done differently in this life if I had the chance. What’s the one thing that could have made all the difference? I can rewrite my master plan, I can resist inertia, I can open my eyes. But what I really need, what I’m so utterly lacking and what feels as critical to me now as oxygen, as blood flow, as air, is guts.
Guts.
If I can corral just a smidgeon of guts, then whatever this new path has in store will be okay.
So I breathe in and then I go deeper still, and beneath the panic and adrenaline and my ever-present instinct to flee, I find it.
Guts.
And so I jump.
—
Email from: [email protected]
To: Willa Chandler-Golden
Subject: Rad!
Willa — Hey! I’m part of the Dare You! camera crew, and I snapped this pic today just as you caught air — it’s attached. Well done, lady! I thought you might want it as a reminder of your leap. See you in a few weeks! (I dare you!) (Ha ha ha.) — Rick
Email from: Willa Chandler-Golden
To: [email protected]
Subject: re: Rad!
Rick — Hello. This is Willa. What’s in a few weeks?
—
My dad is released from the hospital the same day that my cast is due to come off. Vanessa tells me that this is a metaphor, and I can see what she means, but then they slice the plaster in two and my wrist and fingers emerge, dried up but also somehow moist (the worst word in the world), and truly, the smell is akin to death warmed over, so I discard the metaphor pretty quickly. Your cast is off, and your dad is free! By the transitive property, you should be free of him too!
I get it, I do. But there are still so many things to ask of him, so many questions unanswered. It’s not as if he can just stop being my father. It’s not as if I can just stop being his daughter.
“So ask him what you need to ask him,” Vanessa said over the phone earlier this morning while I was getting ready to head to the hospital. She was still a little irritated, just like she was up on the bridge.
“I’m trying,” I said. “It’s not easy. It’s not like I haven’t had thirty-two years of programming.”
“I know,” she said before making an excuse to hang up.
We all show up for my dad’s send-off from the cardiac ward, even my mom. The media is there too — partially because he called them. A statuesque brunette who can’t be that much older than I am wheels him out the front doors, angling her chin toward the pho
tographers, brushing her hair back, cocking her head.
“Who’s that?” Nicky asks, with more than a little pubescent interest.
“A hospital admin?” I suggest.
My mom says: “Your father’s girlfriend.”
Raina says: “What?”
“That’s what he told me. I think the girlfriend should perhaps be in quotations.” My mother makes that air quotes gesture again.
I sputter: “You can’t be serious.”
My mom raises her eyebrows, and then smiles for the cameras because that’s what she’s always done when she trails my father anywhere. But then she stays true to her new master plan: she makes a sharp right and heads toward her own Town Car, the one waiting across the street.
I watch her go, and she must sense it, because she turns and says:
“Oh William, who cares who that girl is? Open your eyes and live your own life! Don’t worry about it too much. Your dad is always full of shit. I should have told you earlier.”
26
Facebook Profile: Willa Chandler-Golden
Hometown: New York
Friends: 261
Occupation: Fired
Religion: Looking
Relationship Status: Married to Shawn Golden
New Facebook Notifications: 2
From: Equinox Gym
Wall Post:
Dear new member, thanks so much for “liking” our page! Now that you’ve joined the club, we hope you’ll swing by and use your free training session. There’s no time like the present. Fitness is life. Life is fitness. (1 hr ago)
From: Minnie Chandler
Wall Post:
Willa! Look! Nancy taught me how to use the Facebook! Will you be my friend? (Is that how I say it?) (5 hrs ago)
Oh my God, I think, I have no life.
The Theory of Opposites Page 19
