Love Is Both Wave and Particle

by Paul Cody

  After a while they wheeled me back to my room, and there was Chloe, and I think I slept most of the day.

  But looking back, and even though I didn’t know it then, someone or something had sent a thin silky thread down the hole to me.

  Ten

  Noah

  I had known Levon Grady for more than twelve years, since kindergarten at Fall Creek, but to say you knew Levon was a highly relative claim. Nobody, I think, really knew Levon, except maybe his mother, or possibly Meg Goldman at the Clock School. But in another sense, everybody knew Levon, because he was so big and handsome, and he was incredibly interesting and odd.

  Brilliant and mysterious, this mass of contradictions, and in some curious way, I felt a special affinity to him, though people would laugh to hear me say that.

  I was small and skinny and nondescript. But I kind of had this secret life, playing the cello, which almost no one knew about, and I was really good at it, and I played, not at school, but on weekends in a string quartet, and summers at music camp, and at home every night. It was my private, eccentric love.

  I kind of kept it secret because I loved it so much that if people knew about it, and someone made fun of the cello, or Bach or Vivaldi, it would almost be more than I could handle, and I might want to give it up. It was just too precious to let anyone know.

  I know that’s not rational, but if nobody knew, then no one could ridicule it, and thus threaten it in any way.

  I thought of myself as bright, and interesting in my way, so if I looked at myself in a fun-house mirror, I might see Levon Grady. Someone who was really bright, who was tall, had broad shoulders, was handsome, but who was very shy, and kept to himself, and who went unnoticed.

  Although Levon could hardly be unnoticed. Because of the way he looked, because he was very quiet and withdrawn, although once in a while, when the teacher would call on him, and it was a question or subject that interested him, he would talk like a volcano and the lava would flow. And during gym, he’d kick the ball over the fence, or run the mile way faster than anybody else. But he was always nice and polite, in his very withdrawn way, his nondescript way, to everybody.

  Nobody, not teachers, not his fellow students, knew what to make of him. Except the girls, of course. They were all, at least a half dozen, always in love with him. Sometimes they hated him, at least one or two, because he was so oblivious, so indifferent to them. Other girls would dare their friends to run up and kiss him or hand him notes proclaiming, I guess, their love, or a friend’s love, for him. But Levon never reacted.

  And as we got a little older, into third or fifth or whatever grade, there were rumors about his mother, who was a neuroscientist and an expert on serial killers, and about the fact that Levon didn’t have a father. Or one that he knew of, and that his mother would never tell him who his father was.

  Now that was weird. Why would that be? Wouldn’t that have to be the darkest secret, and wouldn’t that have to mean that Professor Grady, during research in graduate school, had gotten pregnant by one of the serial killers? Why else keep such a secret?

  Nobody kidded or taunted Levon about that. He was too distant, although thinking about it now, maybe that was why he was so distant. He was also so big and strong and a little bit weird that we were all just a little bit afraid of him.

  I mean, he got invited to birthday parties and things like that, and in the very early grades, maybe kindergarten and first or second grade, he went to a few, but he usually stayed in a corner with a computer, or built a Lego fort more or less alone. And he never had birthday parties himself.

  Professor Grady was tall and beautiful and kind of scary, kind of intimidating. Like she was the opposite of warm and friendly and approachable. You’d see her very rarely, partly because Levon lived only a block and a half from the school, so from real early, maybe even kindergarten, he walked to school on his own.

  None of this is to say that Levon was a freak or a complete weirdo. He knew everyone’s name, and said hello, and made funny little comments, and played chess with other kids during lunch break. And one time, I think in third or fourth grade, we had this really nutty ADD kid named Bobby, who couldn’t sit still and was pretty mean, and he kind of flipped, and knocked over his desk, and picked up a chair and was actually threatening Ms. Evans, the teacher, with it, and Levon grabbed the chair, and got between Bobby and Ms. Evans, and he very calmly held Bobby by the shoulders and said, Bobby, you’ve got to chill. C’mon, buddy, and then things went crazy; the aides and principal were there, and they got Bobby out of the room.

  I sometimes got the feeling that Levon wanted to be just a regular kid, but somehow, because of how he looked, and because he was so bright, and maybe because of his mother and not knowing his father, he couldn’t.

  And then the big thing, of course, was in sixth grade. Unlike a lot of people who claim to have been there, I was actually sitting about three seats down from Levon, and I’d been hearing this Slough idiot taunting Levon for weeks. I didn’t know what Levon would do, but I almost felt sorry for Slough, because I knew Levon, in a way, and I knew how calm and smart and strong he was.

  It was over in, like, a minute, if that. Slough didn’t come close to hitting Levon, and with two powerful shots, Slough was on the ground with a broken nose. And Levon was so calm. He just picked up his backpack and went to the principal’s office.

  He was out of school a year, and later, when I heard he was going to the Clock School, it kind of made me want to go there too. I wanted to go to this tiny school, play the cello in secret, and be around people like Levon Grady. Who was different, but not a weirdo. He was the same Levon, only he didn’t stick out so much. Everyone at the Clock School was at least a little bit odd. Levon was just shy, and trying to find his way, and sometimes he’d even stop and say to me, How’s it going, and pat me on the back. I could almost call him a friend.

  Well, not exactly a friend. But someone I knew and trusted. Someone I knew I could count on in a weird way. Someone who would understand about me being in a string quartet, if I told him, and why I thought Bach was almost a god.

  People would laugh if they heard scrawny Noah say this, but I almost saw Levon as a compatriot, as a very distant soul mate.

  Eleven

  Levon

  Reading what she wrote about Groton, about trying to leave the world—it messed me up, far more than other things she’d written. I was sitting on the futon, my bed on the third floor at home, and the only light came from the computer, and I could tell right away, from the first lines, that this was gonna be serious. That she wasn’t withholding anything. This wasn’t lick smooth my shadow from her first little poem. She was putting it out there.

  Maybe because without even trying she had seen through me to the loneliness, the peeking out from behind curtains, to the fear, and she’d seen how that had gotten to me, she’d seen me trembling, so she felt she had to put herself out there. She owed it to me, she owed it to Meg, and most of all, she owed it to herself.

  Because she was braver than I could ever be. She was stronger than she realized. Maybe she had nothing to lose, or maybe she trusted us. I don’t know.

  But I sat there in the dark, pillows against my back, the pale laptop on my knees, and as I read I was trembling. There was all the drama, all the tension, all the life-and-death stuff, but it was so matter-of-fact.

  I kept thinking, maybe saying out loud, maybe whispering, No, don’t. No, please don’t. But she couldn’t, of course, hear. I kept pausing and looking up. I pushed my head back against the pillows, and I thought of her, how badly, thoroughly, utterly alone and black that must have been. And the release. Her hand flapping from the cut tendons, and I thought of her blood and warm water washing down the drain, and her head against the shower wall, and I said or thought, Sam, Sam, Sam, Sam. Oh, Jesus, Sam. Oh, fuck.

  Then the voices, the pounding on the door, the keys, the elevate and direct pressure, and she would not leave the world. Going out on a stretcher and
all those kids in orange and yellow shorts watching, and the ambulance and hospital, and I felt myself breathe, I felt the air going in and out of my lungs.

  Then McLean. This beautiful sixteen-year-old kid. Her hand and wrist wrapped in white. And still deep, deep down. In shock and awe. Or numb from head to toe.

  They must have tried all the meds for years and years. Nothing had worked, I guess. So they go directly to ECT. Needle in the hand, knock her out. Propofol. And sort of waking in a daze. Volts of electricity to the brain. To this sixteen-year-old kid. Her lovely hair covered with a blue cap. Dense clouds filling her brain. Lightning bolts.

  I looked out the windows on the far side of the room, beyond my desk, to the street, the streetlight, then I looked at the skylights, and the dark sky was cloudy. The ceiling was inclined, running under the roof, and down both sides of the lower parts of the walls were bookcases filled with books and clothes and CDs, and my little stereo system.

  I wondered where she was. I closed the computer lid, and just lay there for a while and thought about her. It was early October, and leaves were just beginning to fall from the trees, and I felt for my flip phone. I thought of something, then chased it from my mind.

  I wanted so badly to call her. It was ten thirty-seven, and I thought, I can’t do that. It’s too late. Then I thought, Email, text.

  I’d never done something like that.

  I got my wallet off the shelf next to my watch, and took out the Post-it where Meg had written Sam’s email and phone number.

  I opened the phone and thought, C’mon. Don’t be a baby.

  Then I thought, What are you gonna say?

  Say what you feel, I told myself. Say you were moved. That you’re really, really glad she’s here.

  Then I thought, I’ll text to see if I can call. Maybe she’ll be asleep.

  I hit message, punched her number in, and wrote, Can I call you? This is Levon.

  I waited about a minute, then hit send.

  Right away, she wrote back, Of course.

  Right now? I texted.

  Why not?

  You’re not asleep or anything?

  Wld I be texting you if I was?

  Ok.

  I dialed, and she said, You’re funny, Levon.

  How come?

  Was I asleep? she said, and laughed.

  Yeah, I guess that wasn’t too shrewd of me.

  No.

  I guess I was nervous. I don’t call people much.

  I bet.

  So—

  So where are you?

  At home. In my bedroom. In the attic. The third floor.

  Hmmm. Me too. I live on the third floor too. I mean, that’s where my bedroom is.

  Cool.

  So you just decided to call?

  I just read your Groton piece.

  Oh, God. Did you hate it?

  Hate it?

  Did you think it was pathetic?

  No. Far from it. I just wanted to say, I’m very, very glad you’re here. That you’re alive and not dead.

  Thanks. Me too.

  And I could say more, but I won’t. Just … great job.

  Thanks.

  Okay, I said. Good night.

  And hung up.

  I lay there in bed and thought of how awkward, how weird, I was. How maladroit. I thought of all the things that were in me, all the things I had wanted to say, and then thought of what I had said.

  I’m glad you’re not dead.

  If I could have kicked myself in the ass, I would have. What a bonehead, a fuck-face, a weirdo. Why could I never get anything right? Always be a fuck-up?

  Was I always gonna be like this? The loser, standing at the dance of life, looking in from the porch window, wondering how they all did it. Learned the steps, knew what to say, what not to say. Not worried that they’d jump out of their own scalded skin.

  Twelve

  Vera

  To say that I was unprepared for the birth of Samantha is to say that a fifth grader was unprepared for a college physics exam. I thought I was completely ready, utterly informed, had paid attention, gone to all the classes, read the books, and taken careful notes. But then: boom. I was in labor, the pains started, and it was like sliding down a very long descent into hell. We went to Brigham and Women’s Hospital in Boston, of course, because, naturally, we had to have the best, and they put that bracelet on my wrist and took all my clothes, though I remember I got to keep my wedding ring and my socks. And I was a vessel, a big scalpel of pain, and my body was the waiting room for the arrival of the baby. I was the tunnel, and this was no tunnel of love. This was the tunnel of a remorseless struggle to get this child out into the world.

  So what I got was, I believe, twenty-three hours of back labor all the way, because she was head down all right, but facing the wrong way. A few times, twice, I think, a large, white-bearded man who seemed like Santa Claus came in and injected something into my spine, and that was miraculous, because the pain ceased. Completely. And for an hour, maybe two, I was, if not in heaven, not in Very Hell, and that was lovely.

  I could feel the contractions, but they didn’t hurt, but then after a while they began to hurt more, then more, then they were worse than ever, if that was possible. Finally, very early in the morning, the nurses, and Nathan, who’d been there the whole time, feeding me ice chips, urging me to take those useless breaths they taught us in baby classes, decided on a cesarean. And they shaved my pubic hair, and put needles in the backs of my hands, and shifted me to a gurney, and I thought, Wheel me to the morgue, baby, take me anywhere but here.

  Then I was in the OR, and the Santa Claus man took me to Utter Heaven, and then they set a bunched, large object on my chest, and said, Isn’t she a beautiful girl?

  And I thought, What is this? Is this a person? My child? My Samantha? And everyone was happy, everyone was jolly, except me.

  I remember thinking, Vera, you are fucked up. What is wrong with you?

  Let’s have some bonding, some glow, some love.

  But they took her away to examine her, and they did stuff to me, including delivering the afterbirth, sewing my poor torn vagina and my flaccid belly, and they said she was eight pounds, three ounces, a big girl, and I remember that her head seemed as large as a hairless Saint Bernard, and that she wiggled a good deal, and had gray eyes, and seemed all head and legs, elbows and knees.

  We were home in a day or two at most, and breast-feeding was a nightmare. She just wouldn’t take to the breast, would latch on for a few seconds, would turn away, and cry and scream. I think we were at the pediatrician’s every other day. Try the bottle, don’t try the bottle because if you do there’s no going back, and my mother said, All three of you—my two brothers and I—were raised on the bottle and look at you. You’re all fine.

  My nipples were cracked and aching, the stitches were killing me, and I thought, This is not going well. What had we been thinking?

  Samantha lost weight. She was under eight pounds, and finally, we supplemented with the bottle, and after a week it was all bottle, and that was another failure.

  No natural childbirth, no breast-feeding, the kid would have been dead if this was two hundred years ago.

  She cried, she was in distress, she writhed like someone was poking her with pins, she didn’t sleep much, we didn’t sleep much. We had a nanny, and if it hadn’t been for her, Margaret, and for Laura, who did weekends, I swear, I would not have made it. This child of mine would not be alive.

  I guess I’d had this picture in my mind, Mother and Child, breast-feeding, in a rocking chair, in front of a fireplace, and our eyes are gazing with adoration at each other, and, sure, there are the jokes, the tired, frazzled parents, but basically it’s a happy, hopeful time.

  I mean, I look back and my mother and father were not exactly warm and hovering parents. They traveled a good deal, and we children were left with a nurse and nanny, and I don’t much remember either of my parents even touching us but for the briefest peck on the
cheek, but I thought that was what parents were like.

  But I swear, I wasn’t naïve. I had talked to plenty of parents of young children. They said it was tough. They said you never sleep. You lose your sex life, your social life. It’s all about feeding and fluids, diapers and sleep. Keeping the poor child from screaming.

  And Samantha had screams. A whole symphony, a band, a quartet, a quintet, a horn section, an ensemble, a wind section, a string section that could whisper or shriek—of crying. She could start low, and build slow, and she could go to full Wagner. Whatever was right or wrong with her, her lungs were fully developed and very powerful.

  To this day, anywhere, in a store, the street, a park, when I hear a baby cry, I go into panic. It hits me somewhere deep in the brain stem, and I’m helpless and enraged, and I feel profoundly inadequate. I don’t believe I will ever feel otherwise.

  Colic, it’s called, and she had massive colic. It’s supposed to pass in a few months. In six months. She was supposed to sleep through the night in a few months, in six months. But I swear. It went on for more than a year. Could it have gone on for two years?

  Did this kid somehow genetically hate me or something?

  And then somewhere around a year and a half, two years, she grew silent. She was supposed to be saying, Gaga, Dada, Mama, but nothing. None of those bright bubbles of sound.

  Through all this, I became a different person. Nathan tried to help. Nathan was good. He was patient. He was kind. But Nathan was working sixty, seventy hours a week, and then we got the house in Chestnut Hill, which was supposed to help everything. All that light and air. All those birds and trees and flowers.

  And me complaining, me pissing and moaning, with full-time help. And I still couldn’t handle it. What did regular people do? What did single mothers do? I hated myself for that too.

  Originally I was supposed to go back to Suisse after three months, then we extended it another three months, and then I never went back. I became a failure. A person who saw a psychoanalyst three times a week, who took Prozac for postpartum depression, lorazepam for anxiety, and Ambien for sleep.