In Some Other Life: A Novel

by Jessica Brody

  When we land, I grab the small bag that I packed and my winter coat and follow the stream of people eager to get back on solid ground. I found the name of my dad’s hotel in an email on my phone from a few weeks back. When he first started the job for Cuddles Diapers.

  He won’t be done with work until much later in the day, so I direct the cabdriver to Columbia University.

  He drops me off at the entrance on Broadway, between the Miller Theatre and the journalism building. I immediately feel the chill as a gust of wind blows across my face. I zip my coat up to the top, burying my face behind the nylon fabric.

  I stick my hands in my pockets and walk down 116th Street toward the iconic Low Memorial Library where the famous Alma Mater bronze statue of Athena sits, welcoming you to the school with her open arms.

  As with Windsor, I visited Columbia University once and immediately knew I wanted to go here. The campus, the buildings, the leaves, they called to me. They sang enchanting melodies to my soul. Later, in high school, when I found out they had one of the best journalism programs in the country, my resolve solidified.

  It was Columbia or bust.

  I didn’t even want to apply to any safety schools, but my dad made me. He said you should always have a backup plan. I said I didn’t need one. I was going to Columbia. I was so certain.

  I was so certain about so many things.

  As I stand in front of the grand columned building and stare up at the statue of Athena, I try to imagine what it would feel like to stand here as a student. A freshman on her first day of class. With my entire future laid out ahead of me. Nothing but promise and possibilities.

  I wonder if Other Me felt that way on her first day at the Windsor Academy. The first time she drove through those black iron gates and ascended the grand staircase of Royce Hall. She must have. There must have been a time when she was happy. When she thought she had everything she always wanted.

  I wonder how long that lasted. How many days, weeks, months did it take for her to realize her happiness had soured? How long was it before she realized that she was the frog in the pot and the water had boiled around her?

  As I walk alongside the snow-covered lawns of the beautiful city campus, I think about that personal essay I found on my laptop. The first version. The one Other Me wrote and deleted. Those pages were so saturated with sorrow. And bitterness. And regret. The Windsor Academy had turned her into someone she didn’t recognize anymore. A shadow of the girl she thought she was.

  And I know exactly why she never turned it in.

  It’s the same reason I never broke up with Austin.

  Three and a half years passed, and somewhere deep down, I knew we weren’t right for each other. I knew we would never last. But I wanted to believe I had made the right decision in choosing him. I wanted to believe that I had followed my heart and that my heart would never mislead me.

  And so did she.

  If she had turned in that essay—if she had admitted she was unhappy and her world was flawed and her family was falling apart—she would have invalidated her entire life. Her entire existence. It would have confirmed what she didn’t want to admit: that she had made the wrong choice.

  But in the end, both choices came with their own varieties of heartbreak and regret. Neither life was perfect. Neither path was free of obstacles.

  Which means maybe the problem was never the choice.

  Maybe it was me.

  I stop and sit on a park bench, bristling against the cold. I remove my phone from my bag and scroll through my SnipPic feed, staring at the countless pictures of my so-called perfect life. Me and Sequoia studying in the student union, me and Sequoia dressed to the nines at the fund-raising gala. Me and Sequoia with the wind blowing through our hair, smiling in front of the steps of Royce Hall.

  Up until a few weeks ago, I was so certain about so many things. My future. My past. And all the mistakes I had made in between. I was so certain I knew what I wanted and exactly how to get it. But now I’m not certain of anything anymore. And I wonder if I ever will be again.

  I always thought certainty was one of my biggest strengths. A character trait I could lay claim to and proudly write on a college application in between “meticulous” and “strong leader.”

  But maybe certainty is more of a weakness. A flaw. A limitation. After all, when you’re so absolutely certain about what you want—about the life you are meant to lead—you miss out on everything else that’s out there. Every other possible happiness.

  Every other potential road that could have led you exactly where you’re supposed to go.

  Instead, you end up here.

  Cold and confused. Sitting alone in the middle of a city you don’t know. Haunted by a version of yourself you don’t recognize. Surrounded by a place you thought you could call home.

  Then My Father Grows Up

  When I show up at the hotel later that night and knock on room 717, I almost don’t recognize my own father when he opens the door. His clothes are all wrong. He used to wear ratty jeans with holes and T-shirts with funny photographer puns on them like “Warning: At Any Time I May Snap!” Now he’s wearing a collared shirt and slacks. I didn’t even know my father owned a pair of slacks.

  But it isn’t even his attire that most shocks me. His skin looks ashen and almost thirsty. His hair is graying at the temples. And there’s something about his eyes that sends a chill through me, followed by another wave of guilt.

  This life, this choice. It’s changed him. In more ways than I even realized.

  It takes a long time to convince my dad not to put me right back on a flight home. It takes even longer for my mom to stop screaming at me on the other end of the phone. But eventually, things settle down and the world seems somewhat at peace again.

  I told my dad that I needed a break from school. That it was just getting to be too much. I didn’t elaborate beyond that. Maybe he could see it in the shadows under my eyes, or hear it in the break in my voice, but he eventually agreed to let me stay for a few days, on the condition that I come to work with him tomorrow so he can keep an eye on me.

  I want to argue that I’m eighteen years old now. I don’t need anyone to keep an eye on me. But I decide not to press my luck.

  He calls for a rollaway bed to be brought to his hotel room. I order room service. And we both sit in our pajamas eating pasta and watching episodes of Magnum, P.I. on Dad’s iPad.

  The next day I go to the set of his photo shoot and Dad puts me to work as his photographer’s assistant. I run around swapping cameras, bringing him lenses, fixing stray hairs on the heads of babies, ordering lunch. It’s nice to feel busy without all the pressure. It doesn’t erase any of my problems, but it does make them fade into the background for a few hours.

  After a long day, Dad and I return to the hotel for another room service dinner.

  “Is this what your life is like now?” I ask after we’ve eaten. I’m sitting on my rollaway bed, playing a game on Dad’s iPad.

  Dad is propped up on his bed with his laptop, reviewing pictures from today’s shoot and marking the ones he likes. His face is so serious as he clicks through page after page of the same stupid baby. Like the fate of the world rests on this one diaper ad.

  “Is what my life now?” he asks without looking up.

  “Room service and twelve-hour shifts with toddlers?”

  He cracks a smile. “Pretty glamorous, huh?”

  For just a flicker of a moment, I see a glimpse of old Dad. The one who lives in a universe far, far away. The one who makes waffles with chocolate chips in them on special days. The one who wakes me up every morning by singing horribly off-key.

  The one whose eyes, close up, look like the whole world.

  But then, just as fast as it came, the moment is gone. His smile fades. His jaw tightens. He goes back to sorting through photographs.

  “Dad?” I ask, setting down the iPad.

  “Hmm?”

  “Do you ever take pictures of p
eople’s eyes anymore?”

  “Eyes?” he asks, his brow furrowing. Then, a moment later, recognition flashes over his face and he looks up at me, leaning back against the headboard. “Oh, right. The eyes. God, I haven’t thought about those in a long time.”

  “You called the project Portals,” I remind him.

  He chuckles. “That’s right. Your mom’s eyes were always my favorite.”

  “The sunflowers.”

  He smiles, looking nostalgic as he stares off into the distance. “Yeah. The sunflowers.” Then, like he’s silently scolding himself for getting distracted, his wistful expression vanishes and he goes back to work.

  “So you don’t take those pictures anymore?” I confirm. “I mean, not even as a hobby?”

  He laughs like this is the funniest thing he’s heard in a while. “Yeah, in all my spare time between photographing diapers and bottles of shampoo.”

  “But the eyes were your passion. You lived for those photographs. They were good. And maybe, if you had kept at it, they would have taken you somewhere amazing.”

  Dad studies me for a while, like he’s trying to read between my words. Finally, he sighs and says, “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t want to do. Give up on things we love to allow other things to flourish. Sometimes our responsibilities and obligations outweigh our silly whims and childish dreams.”

  Tears well in my eyes at the reminder of what Dad gave up for me. At the sight of this man—this stranger in a hotel room—who bears so little resemblance to my father. My dad is the kind of person who lives for silly whims and childish dreams. He embodies them. He makes adulthood look like an amusement park. Or at least he did.

  In another life.

  But this person sitting on that bed has none of that. The child in him has been stamped out long ago. I can see that now. He’s lost his whimsy. He’s lost the thing that makes him …

  Dad.

  I watch him for a long time, taking in his studious expression, wondering where the manchild inside is hiding. Is he even still in there? Or is he gone for good?

  I listen to the quiet click, click, click of his selection process for a few moments, then I ask, “Will you take a picture of my eyes?”

  The clicking halts. “What? Now?”

  I shrug. “Why not?”

  “Because I’m busy, Kennedy,” he says, a slight edge to his voice. “And because I don’t do that anymore.”

  “Please,” I say quietly. Urgently. It’s enough to make my dad look up.

  “Why?” he asks.

  “I…” I start to say, my voice cracking. “I can’t explain. I just really need you to do this for me.”

  Dad studies me for a few seconds, his brow pinched together to form a lopsided question mark between his eyes. Then he places his laptop on the bed next to him and grabs Magnum from the nightstand.

  “C’mon,” he says, standing up and heading toward the bathroom. “This is where we’ll get the best light.”

  Then I Grow Up

  Thirty minutes later, I’m staring into an endless icy blue tundra. At least that’s what it looks like to me. My dad has taken several pictures of both my eyes and blown them up until all that’s visible on the screen are interwoven threads of blue and white. Like the snow-covered branches of the trees on the Columbia campus.

  I click through the shots, leaning forward and back and tilting my head from side to side, trying to see the images from every angle. But the longer I gaze at the pixels, the more certain I am that there’s been some mistake.

  “This isn’t it,” I determine.

  My dad leans over my shoulder to get a clearer view. “What do you mean, this isn’t it?”

  “There’s been a mix-up. These aren’t my eyes.”

  He laughs. “Of course they’re your eyes. I don’t have any other eyes on this computer.”

  I turn back to the screen and examine the pictures again. Is it the sleep deprivation? Is it all the stress? This can’t be my eye. It’s too different. Where are the spiderwebs? Where’s the good luck my Dad always put his faith in?

  “But…” I start to argue, my voice lacking conviction. “They’ve changed.”

  “Of course, they’ve changed. The last time I photographed your eyes you were only thirteen. Eyes change. Just like faces.”

  No, I want to argue. You photographed my eye a month ago. For your gallery show. There were spiderwebs there. There was magic there. You said so yourself.

  This eye has no magic. There is no life in these strands. No shimmering energy. This eye looks …

  Dead.

  Frozen over.

  Broken.

  I close the laptop screen, unable to look at it anymore. It reminds me too much of what I’ve lost. What I fear I’ll never be able to get back. I rise from the desk chair and walk back over to my little rollaway bed. I sit down and pull my legs up to my chin, wrapping my arms tightly around them.

  “I’m sorry,” Dad offers. “I didn’t mean to upset you. You said—”

  “I know,” I interrupt him. “It’s fine. I just…”

  Didn’t expect to see what I saw.

  Didn’t expect to feel what I feel.

  Didn’t expect any of this …

  “Do you ever think about quitting your job and going back to the Portals project?” I ask.

  Dad chuckles, but it’s an empty, soulless sound that makes me shiver. He grabs the laptop from the desk and brings it back to his bed. “No.”

  “Why not? Don’t you ever wonder where another path could have led you? What choices could have resulted in different outcomes?”

  “The Portals project was a silly dream. It would never have led to anything.”

  “Maybe it would!” I shoot back, feeling tears of frustration spring to my eyes. I have to make him see. I have to make him realize that he made the wrong choice. He never should have given up on his dream because of me. If I can’t fix my own mistakes, then at least I can try to fix his. “You don’t know. Maybe it would have been huge!”

  “Kennedy,” he says, softly but urgently. “We make our choices and we have to live with them.”

  He sits down, props his feet back up, and reopens the laptop. My own lifeless zombie eye instantly pins me with an accusing stare.

  I avert my gaze so he can’t see my tears, but the crack in my voice gives me away. “I know you gave it up for me,” I whisper. “I know you only took the job so I could go to Windsor.”

  He sucks in a breath as he looks over at me, his face pale. He struggles to say something—the right thing—but in the end he goes with “I always had a feeling that you knew.”

  I’m crying now. But I don’t care. I turn to him. I confront him with my tears. “Why didn’t you just tell me?”

  “Your mom and I decided not to. We didn’t want to burden you with the financial stuff. I always thought you deserved to know, though.”

  “What if I gave it up?” I fire back before I can think of what I’m saying. But as soon as the question is out of my mouth, I know it’s what I want to do. What I have to do. Dad gave up everything for me. It’s time I return the favor. “I’ll quit the Windsor Academy. I’ll do it tomorrow. You won’t have to pay the tuition anymore. You won’t have to work this job. You can do whatever you want. You can—”

  “You’re not quitting Windsor,” he says sternly. “Stop talking nonsense. You have a little more than a semester left. I don’t know what’s been going on at school. Obviously something or you wouldn’t be here. I realize you’re probably under a lot of stress, but you can’t quit now. Not when you’re this close to the finish line.”

  The finish line.

  It’s always about the finish line.

  “I have to,” I whisper. “I’ve made too many mistakes. I can’t go back.”

  Dad laughs softly. “Kennedy, mistakes are a dime a dozen. Everyone makes them. Not all of your choices can be winners. But you make the most of the outcome. You learn what you need to learn and you move on.
Some mistakes need to be made. So we can teach ourselves how to get back up. You’re not a quitter. That’s one of your best qualities. You see things through. To the very end.”

  A chill runs through me. He’s right. I do follow through. That’s always been one of my strengths. But maybe I don’t do it for the right reasons. Maybe I can’t let go because letting go would be the same as admitting I’m wrong. So I keep digging myself in deeper and deeper to avoid facing the fact that I made the wrong choice.

  But Dad did make the wrong choice. I’m certain of it.

  “Neither are you!” I reply, my voice rising much higher than I anticipated. “You were never a quitter. But you gave up on your dream, Dad. You could have been something amazing but you quit. For me. I can’t live with myself knowing you did that. I can’t. You have to take it back. You have to!”

  My final words are strangled in sobs. The tears are falling so fast, I fear I might drown in them. Dad rushes over, sits down on my bed, and pulls me into his arms. I collapse against his chest and cry like I used to do when I was a little girl. When all I needed to stave off the nightmares was my dad’s strong, unrelenting arms.

  But it’s going to take a lot more than a hug to stave off this nightmare. It’s going to take a miracle.

  “I don’t regret anything,” Dad whispers into my ear. “I promise.”

  I shake my head, most likely leaving unsightly smudges on his white undershirt. “But your job,” I mumble. “You hate your job. You must regret taking it.”

  “Never,” he says, with such certainty it almost startles me. I lift my head and look at him through my blurry, tear-filled eyes.

  He laughs and reaches out to wipe my face. “Look what it did for you! You are at one of the best schools in the country. You’ve practically been accepted to Columbia. How could I ever regret that? I’m so proud of you.”

  I open my mouth to speak, but no words come out. How can I tell him? How can I possibly admit that I wasted it all? I can’t. I won’t. I refuse.

  Dad offers me an encouraging smile. “Look. Jeffrey and Associates might be how I make money but it’s not my job. My job, first and foremost, is being your dad. I made that choice eighteen years ago when I left my ‘edgy phase’ behind and decided to be a husband and a father. It was the best choice I ever made. Every parent makes the decision to put someone else’s life first when they have children. My job is providing for you and Frankie and giving you guys everything you want. However I can. And you know what?” He reaches out and catches a stray tear that rolls down my cheek. “I did that. I’ve succeeded. So, no, I regret nothing.”