Love Is Both Wave and Particle

by Paul Cody

  But how—?

  I think I was really tired, and stressed and overworked, and just not sleeping very much. Then Friday afternoon—Friday was two days ago and school, right?—I was walking to my car and this heavy gray blanket came over me. Or maybe it was earlier in the day. I can’t really remember.

  So what’d you do?

  I came home and got in bed and pulled the covers over my head. And I just felt like dying.

  Holy shit.

  Yeah. Holy shit. That’s how it feels.

  She told me how her mom had come home and how she’d told her she felt terrible, and then when her dad came home she told them she felt like dying and they took her to the ER.

  And how kind everybody had been, and how she’d spent the night, and her amazing psychiatrist, Dr. Felter, came in to the psych ward Saturday morning and changed her meds up, and how now she was going to see Dr. Felter every week for a month or two.

  Sam had been terrified the whole time that they were going to send her back to McLean or Austen Riggs, but they promised, her mom and dad, the ER doctor, all of them, that she’d only spend one or two nights on the ward. That she’d be home in a day or two. And they kept their word.

  So you’re feeling pretty okay now? I asked.

  Yeah. Pretty decent for a crazy girl.

  We sat and looked out the window and held hands. And after a long time she said, Are we okay? Sam and Levon?

  We—yes. I stammered for a moment at her use of “Sam and Levon.” We’re better than okay. You’ve just got to promise to tell me things. To tell me everything. To let me know if you’re stressed or lonely or tired, or if you feel like something’s coming on.

  Can you promise me that? I asked.

  She smiled.

  She said, You know what’s pretty ironic?

  What?

  Hearing that coming from you.

  How so?

  I mean, Mr. Communication. Mr. Transparency. The guy who spends the night with me on Christmas and then shuts me out for three months.

  It’s just that, if you didn’t tell your parents. Damn. I don’t even want to think about it.

  What’s happening to us, Levon? Suddenly she was serious.

  I looked out the window, and at first I think I was frowning and perplexed. Then I started to smile, and I said, Meg happened to us, and you happened to me, and all the rest of it is a big mystery, a paradox. Maybe in twenty years I’ll understand.

  Maybe never, she said.

  Then she leaned over, and right there in her parents’ living room, she kissed me on the lips.

  In broad daylight. As if there were no such thing as secrets.

  Thirty-five

  Avery

  Well, we knew of at least one grateful young man at the Clock School on April 1, when I went on the New York University website to find that yours truly had been accepted, and that I was, in fact, moving to the southern end of the island of Manhattan in late August. I was in a quiet room at school, and I started whooping it up, and people started pouring in—Meg, Ron, Noah, Sierra, Anna, a bunch of the computer kids, Sam, and finally Levon, and he hugged me so hard, and lifted me, I swear, halfway to the ceiling, though he needn’t have.

  I was already there.

  The colleges had been reporting in dribs and drabs since December with the early-decision applications. Levon and Sam were Cornell, Anna was going to Oberlin, Noah to Williams or Kenyon, a bunch of the computer kids were RIT, Carnegie Mellon, Case Western, and one, surprisingly, to Williams, which was a fantastic school, but I would have thought somewhere more techie.

  I went out so Sierra could have a smoke, and it was actually pushing into the midfifties—jean jacket weather. I asked if she minded all this and she said not really, but she had to admit that she was a little surprised that she did mind a little bit. Like here we all had these definite exciting futures, at definite exciting places, and she had no idea what she was gonna do or where she was gonna be. For all she knew she was gonna be a barista at Starbucks or Gimme! Or maybe working on some organic farm just out of town, like shoveling goat shit, or cleaning out the pens of pigs. That, she bet, could be pretty nasty.

  Yeah, but so too could be being stuck at the absolute worst college, in the worst town in the world, with an absolute asshole of a roommate, and parents who said, We paid for this year; you’re staying.

  That would definitely suck, she said, and she was pretty sure she’d apply in the fall.

  So, Sierra, I said, two things.

  Yes, my dear.

  Two things.

  Yes.

  Will you visit your first love in the big city, so I can show you all the smoky dens of iniquity at three a.m.?

  I absolutely will.

  I count on that.

  You’ve got it.

  And Levon and Sam? What gives?

  I can’t help you with that one, she said. Something is definitely going on there. I don’t think they’re lovers. Not yet. But I think they’re heading that way. And some serious shit has happened with Levon.

  Why do you say they’re not lovers?

  Not quite easy enough physically yet. A little too stiff, a little unnatural, almost skittish, but it’s coming, no pun intended. I think they’re seriously in deep like, if not in love. And Levon’s different. I don’t know how. It’s like he was on a lot of diazepam or sipping martinis between classes. Something’s still weighing on him, but he’s easier too. Maybe all that father shit. Maybe Sam said or did something. Maybe Susan, though I doubt that. Susan’s the immovable object.

  I tended to agree with that. Then Sierra went inside.

  I was staying outside when Anna came out. She said, You ready for the big city, Avery? And I said, The question, my dear, is: is the big city ready for me?

  Now where exactly is Oberlin? I asked, though I knew full well where it was.

  Oberlin, Ohio.

  And Ohio is where?

  Avery, she said, gimme a break.

  I offered her my water bottle.

  She took it and sipped.

  And it’s near what municipality?

  Does that mean city?

  Correct.

  Cleveland.

  Ah, yes. Cleveland, Ohio. That’s on one of the Great Lakes, I believe. Lake Erie?

  Anna sucked in more water. And where’s NYU? she asked.

  Very amusing.

  I’m very happy for you.

  Me too. For you.

  Avery? I have an odd question for you, and I’m only asking because we’re coming to the end of school and everything.

  Yes? I’m all ears. You have me most intrigued.

  Do you think we should ever have tried to go to bed together? Just once? For the hell of it?

  She caught me completely off guard. I was oddly touched.

  Me and you? In bed together? Naked?

  She nodded, and kept nodding.

  I don’t know. I never considered the idea, though I always thought, just as I always told you, that you were immensely attractive, and pretty much the coolest person in the school. I don’t know why it never occurred to me. Did it occur to you?

  Sort of?

  Any particular reason?

  Not really. Just that we’re all leaving.

  You know something, sweetheart, I said, and I put my hand on the side of her face. I wouldn’t rule it in, and I wouldn’t rule it out. We have about a month and a half left. And then most of the summer.

  And then breaks when we’re in college.

  We sat in silence for a minute or two.

  Does this have anything to do with Levon and Sam?

  Why would you think that?

  ’Cause you’re their best friend, and I can’t imagine you asking such a question before becoming so tight with them.

  Avery, I’m 99 percent positive they’re not having sex.

  You’d tell me if you knew?

  I think that would be up to them. But you’d know.

  We sat a little more.

/>   Anna, can I say something?

  But of course.

  I’m moved and honored to be even considered, in your thoughts, as a possible sexual partner.

  Avery, she said, you’re a gentleman to the roots of your hair.

  I nodded.

  And where’d you say you were going to college? she said. Then we were laughing.

  Gotcha, she said.

  You’re going where?

  Cleveland, Anna said. It’s in Iowa. Near the Great Salt Lake. Lots of Mormons. Great nightlife.

  Thirty-six

  Kendall

  I arrived at Austen Riggs in January, and my family’s from Los Angeles, and it was not just that I was as depressed as I was, but I felt almost as though I was being sent away to the land of the wicked Queen of the North. Not that it wasn’t very, very beautiful in its way—the mountains, and the trees, and the amazing whiteness and all of it so clean, and the air so clear and the granite in the bare places in the mountains so gray and hard and solid and very, very old, like it had survived everything, had been there forever, and would be there a whole lot longer.

  But the main house was white and huge and so elegant in a way you never saw in LA, just understated, and the great oaks and beeches looked hundreds of years old, and everybody was so quiet and formal and friendly and kind.

  And most of all Sam, who I met the first night, when they drove me up from New York City, which was everything Austen Riggs was not. Loud, crazy, busy, frantic, flashing at you a thousand miles an hour, and I just closed my eyes, and hoped the driver knew where he was going. Which of course he did.

  Then north, across, I guess, the George Washington Bridge, then along the Hudson, or near the Hudson, and along highways, and turns, and bit by bit, there were fewer cars, and I saw a sign that we were in Massachusetts. And I knew that Stockbridge was not far across the Massachusetts border.

  Then we were on the grounds, and though it was dark, and it was night, the big house was lit up, they received me, and I was given a thorough medical exam, and I was sixteen and very sad and scared, and this girl, a bit older than me, leaned in the doorway after the exam, and said, Hi, Kendall, I’m Sam, I’ve been appointed kind of as your big sister these first few weeks, so maybe sometime tomorrow I can show you around a little.

  I nodded, and stared, because she was beautiful beyond measure, and I had been alone on planes all day, and was very tired, and really low and frightened. And I was half afraid I had come to an awful, punishing place, but here was this graceful, elegant girl, not much older than me.

  Try to relax, and get some rest. You must be exhausted. I know that’s like saying, Don’t think of polar bears, she said, and we both laughed. But you’re in a good place.

  She stepped in, patted my shoulder, and left.

  There are some things, or people, that occur at certain moments, when you exactly need them in just that way in life—and Sam was that for me.

  Like there’s a line in the Bible, and I’m not even religious, but it says, For I was in prison, and You visited me.

  That just gets to me every time. It almost makes me cry. Because I felt like I’d been sent to a kind of prison, a very cushy prison, to be sure, but a prison nonetheless, and Sam was the first person who visited me.

  And she was as good as her word, because at breakfast the next morning, she sat down next to me with her tray, and there was a fire going in the fireplace, and she said, I bet this feels like a long way from LA, indicating the snow on the trees and hills outside, and I said, Thousands of miles.

  She asked how I’d slept, and I said, Not too well, and she said maybe I was overexcited.

  She said that after breakfast, if I didn’t have any appointments, or any particular place to be, and if I felt like it, she’d show me around, and I said, Sure, that would be great.

  And pretty much from that morning, it was as though I had a big sister, somebody I could always turn to. Someone who had been through a lot, but who never complained, and who always said, Well, that’s a tough thing you’re going through, that’s really, really hard, but you’re tougher than you think, and you’ll get through it. I know you will.

  She was there at the beginning, and she was there until she left in June.

  I never came out and told her. I guess I’m still pretty shy, and pretty careful with my emotions, but if I could tell her one thing, it’s that I kind of feel she saved me in some small way. Because on a winter night, in a faraway and snowy place, she was the person who visited my prison, and it almost makes tears come to my eyes to think about it, even all this time later. And she was always there. Just quiet and steady and strong.

  That’s how I think of Sam Vash.

  Thirty-seven

  Levon

  Things had not been great with me and Susan since Christmas. Now it was April, and though we talked and ate dinner together, and said the usual things in passing, there was a certain chill to everything. She seemed somehow not so big, not so confident, and it was as though I had kind of beat up on her, and really hurt her, and I didn’t feel so great about that.

  Then one night, I think it was a Tuesday or Wednesday, and fairly late because she was in her pajamas and bathrobe and most of the lights on the first floor were off, I stopped her in the doorway to the living room and said, Mom.

  This had gone on too long, and I was really beginning to feel for her. And I was beginning to understand that maybe, like me, she didn’t have such great people skills.

  I opened my arms and hugged her, and because she was barefoot and I was in my Docs with the inch-and-a-half heel, I felt enormous.

  We weren’t big huggers or touchers in my family. It went with the territory of Kansas, I guess. You knew you all loved each other. You didn’t have to go around showing it all the time.

  But I held on tight, towering over her, and I said, Susan, I want you to know that I love you very, very much. And I’m proud of you, and I think you’ve been a great mom.

  Levon, she said in a choked voice, and then she put her arms around me, and clung to me like I was Jesus or Buddha. Oh, honey, I’m so, so sorry. I fucked up bad.

  No. You were brave, and adamant, and you loved me.

  I could feel her tears on my chest.

  I had never witnessed her crying.

  Sweetheart, I was young and arrogant and foolish. I thought I knew everything.

  I took her hand and led her into the dark living room. We sat on the couch, our sides touching, and I held on to her hand.

  You had an unusual kid. I’m not a junkie or in an asylum. I’m not in jail.

  But it could have been so much better for you.

  On the whole, it was pretty good. I do like to be alone.

  But you should have had friends.

  I’m making friends this year. Slowly, maybe a little awkwardly, but I have friends. This thing with Meg and Sam has really made me look at myself and at other people. At empathy. And being vulnerable. I have a long, long way to go. But you know how there’re all these social archetypes? The absentminded professor, the whore with a heart of gold, the screwed-up teenager? I’m getting more like the basic screwed-up teenager.

  But it’s so much more than that, Levon.

  But it could have been so much worse. What if you married some nutcase, and I had a crazy father? Say one of your colleagues from your department—Bates or Stoneham?

  She started laughing. Bates would have had us all on macrobiotic diets, and you’d still be wetting the bed, and probably sucking your thumb, she said.

  And Stoneham would have had you raise me in some Skinner’s box, eating raw meat, and going to weekend retreats in sweat lodges where I would’ve died of heatstroke.

  We laughed and then we were silent awhile.

  I don’t know, honey. I feel so many conflicting things, she said.

  I do too. I feel like one of those multiple personalities. Who’s gonna wake up today? Angry Billy, Shy Bobby, Aggressive Susie. But a lot of the time I feel almost el
ated. Like things are changing, and I’m so, so excited by what’s happening. The world’s getting bigger. It’s a little scary, but really cool too.

  Then I paused.

  But I feel unambiguous love for you.

  She looked at me, and her eyes were wet.

  And one other thing. And this feels really weird to tell you.

  What? she asked.

  It feels very strange.

  Tell me.

  I maybe … Then I paused. I might possibly, sort of, be finding, may even have, a girlfriend.

  Honestly?

  Yeah. I think. We like each other a ton.

  Sam?

  Yes.

  Then we were quiet some more. We were leaning against each other.

  Finally I said, Mom, Susan, it’s gonna be okay. Nothing’s gonna be easy, but I swear, over time, it’s gonna be okay. It’s just changing. And kind of abruptly and fast. But we’ll deal.

  You know I love you ferociously, she said.

  And as your dad might say, I said, though it’s redundant and unnecessary to say so, the feeling is fully mutual.

  Then we sat in the dark, in silence, like two old boxers who, exhausted after a long fight, hug in the middle of the ring after battering each other for twelve rounds, who feel a certain respect and admiration and maybe even a kind of love for each other, because only they know what they have just gone through.

  Thirty-eight

  Sam

  Life had been good lately, I had to say. The new meds seemed to be working, and seeing Dr. Felter had been kind of cool. She had this wonderful office, with this lovely maroon carpet, a couch, and these deep chairs, and a few bookcases, and this real abstract art on the walls.

  Every shrink’s office I’ve ever seen had abstract art on the walls. No landscapes, no portraits, no still lifes. I guess they wanted you to free-associate or something, or not to be able to make too much of a recognizable object. That would be too un-Freudian.

  But no African masks, though every other shrink’s office I’d seen had at least one African mask, or an African basket or something, as though that was supposed to bring us back to our earliest primitive roots. Didn’t the human race all start out in Africa? Didn’t Freud love African art?