Graduates in Wonderland

by Jessica Pan

  Thank God for that.

  More soon, ma chérie,

  Rachelle le French

  MARCH 11

  Rachel to Jess

  got hit by car. harrowing night. hard to type on tiny phone. my body is broken.

  MARCH 13

  Rachel to Jess

  Oh God. If you couldn’t tell from our phone call, Vicodin goes very well with antidepressants. Almost, you might say...too well. I wasn’t hallucinating, but I had an overwhelming sense of peace in the emergency room. So what if my head is bleeding and my body is broken? My spirit lives on! This feeling lasted all through last night and into this morning, until I woke up, reached for a glass of water, and ended up knocking it off the table with my cast. Then everything came back to me. Including pain, because my meds were wearing off.

  By the time Platonic Nick had taken me to the hospital, I knew I was all right—­hence my loopy responses to you on the phone involving proclamations of love to you and whoever that British boy you were with was. Please clarify because the pain pills confuse things. For a second last night I thought he was Jude Law. Up until the hospital, though, it was anyone’s game. I keep going over the events in my head because I can hardly believe them.

  Everything felt so routine. Sally and I had to work late that evening, so I ran out the door at 8 P.M. because Nick was having a dinner party. I was really looking forward to it because I hadn’t seen him in a while and haven’t been social at all lately.

  It was drizzling and dark out when I left, with all of the streetlights reflected in the pavement. I climbed out of the subway at the Lorimer stop and pulled out my umbrella. I delighted in my bright yellow umbrella against the black and gold of the Brooklyn night. I was wearing a light blue silk dress that billowed out with all the wind. I felt like I was in Funny Face, after Audrey Hepburn gets her makeover and starts to jaunt around New York. Cross street, look both ways, nobody coming. Left leg extends out, right arm swings with it.

  BOOM. Body soars and head hits the pavement. All I think is: “So this is what it feels like to die.” Because I am an exceptionally overdramatic person, and I have no idea what just happened to me, and for the first time in my life, my thoughts have paused.

  And then: “This is so interesting, so foreign from everyday life.”

  But then the stillness abruptly ended as the sound of car horns surrounded me. What happened was that I was crossing at the entrance to the freeway and someone in a pickup truck had made a blind left turn just before their light changed. Clipping me in the process.

  Because pedestrians kept going on with their lives as if nothing had happened, I assumed getting hit by a car was not a big deal—­even though I couldn’t get up for a few moments and cars swerved around me. The contents of my purse were strewn all over the street, and for a moment, I couldn’t move my lungs, or my legs, and my arms were trembling uncontrollably.

  This is really happening.

  A man jumped out of the truck while I managed to stand up.

  Guy: Holy shit. Holy shit. I am so sorry. Should I call an ambulance?

  I wobbled to my feet.

  Me: No, I’m fine! Really, I’m fine. Look, I can walk. I have to get to a dinner party. If something’s wrong, I’ll go to the doctor tomorrow.

  Rosabelle was incredulous when I told her this part, but it makes sense to me. I was absolutely blind to anything that would distract me from my number one priority: getting to this dinner party on time. Apparently when you have a blunt blow to the head, your brain plays tricks on you. I just couldn’t seem to shake the thought that everyone at the dinner party was waiting for me! Going to the hospital did not even seem like an option at the time.

  Guy: Um, you’re bleeding pretty badly. Fuck. FUCK ME!

  Me: Where am I bleeding? (I had lost all sensation in my entire body. It felt like when your leg goes to sleep.)

  Guy: Your forehead. Also your hands...maybe your legs?

  Me: What are you talking about? I can’t feel anything!

  Guy: Should I...call an ambulance?

  Me: Ahahaha, I can’t feel my face!

  Guy: —­

  Me: Don’t worry! I am so late! Tell you what, I’ll give you a call if I have to go to the hospital.

  Nobody understands how I just left without calling an ambulance. Not the police, not my parents, nobody. The thing I’m piecing together is that when traumatic things actually happen to you, you react in ways you never would have expected. If I had been watching this on any kind of TV show, I would have been screaming at the TV, “GO TO THE HOSPITAL, YOU IDIOT!”

  Instead, I just walked away from the scene of my own car accident. I did manage to get the driver’s name and number, as well as his license plate, before I ran off. Then (this part’s a secret, because in hindsight it makes me sound crazy) I walked into a bodega to buy a bottle of wine, still thinking I could make it to Nick’s dinner party on time. It wasn’t until I saw the frightened expression on the cashier’s face that I reached up to touch my head and felt blood. The guy motioned for me to look at myself in the security camera mirror and that’s when I saw what he saw: girl walks into bodega caked in dirt and blood, forehead slit open, hands shaking wildly, crazed look in her eyes. Needs wine. He handed me a paper towel to put on my forehead.

  With wine in tow, I kept going and buzzed Nick’s door. I climbed the stairs to his loft and as he opened the door, I immediately dropped the bottle, which broke as it shattered down four flights of stairs.

  Me: Sorry I’m late! There was—­

  Nick: What happened to you?! Is your face bleeding? Your legs are all scratched up. And your face is bleeding.

  He took me to the hospital, but he had fifteen people at his apartment waiting for his return. He stayed with me as I called my parents and Rosabelle. She came running to sit in the waiting room for three hours. I have never been so glad to see someone in my entire life. She and I sat there for hours with a guy in a wheelchair who was vomiting into a bowl.

  A Spanish soap opera played on the TV above us and it seemed to be on a continuous loop. I think. It’s all a bit fuzzy. I also feel like Jude Law was in it.

  Rosabelle kicked into high gear. You remember how she sees herself as den mother to everyone. She went up to the night nurse and gesticulated a lot before stomping back to me. From then until the time I was treated, Rosabelle would look up at intervals and yell, “She’s bleeding from her HEAD.”

  Finally a nurse called my name.

  Once I was back in the examining area, the doctors examined me and finally they gave me painkillers. That’s when I called you. In the postcrash haze, I was scolded by various members of the hospital staff for using my cell phone in the ER. But talking to you was so worth it.

  So, physically this is my condition: bruised ribs, ripped ligament in my hand, eight stitches on my face. I got lucky. That’s what the nurses at the hospital kept saying: “You are so lucky.”

  It’s hard to feel lucky after you’ve been hit by a car. My first reaction was wondering why the universe did this to me.

  Here is what Claudia says (I have a week off of work, so I am seeing her every other day): “Stop talking about the universe.” This is embarrassing, but she actually pulled out a photo of the Milky Way and pointed at it. “You think the universe cares if you move to Paris or not? You think the universe put those stitches on your face?”

  Come on, Claudia! I don’t know! Probably not? And she counters, “Sometimes bad things happen and there isn’t anything we can do about it in that moment. But we can’t blame things on the universe.”

  This has been a recurrent theme with us—­that I blame bad things on my circumstances rather than on my decisions or passive behavior. Being in charge of my own fate (and it being my fault) frightens me.

  But since the accident, I’ve been having trouble sleeping. I turn off the light at night and clim
b into bed and lie still, blinking in the darkness. The same thoughts resonate in my mind: “I could have been killed in that car accident and all I would have to show for my life is being a shitty assistant and a pile of unpublished novels and no meaningful romantic relationships.”

  I don’t want to live like this anymore: aimlessly going to the same dead-­end job every day, only hanging out with Rosabelle and Buster, constantly imagining myself somewhere else yet always following my current trajectory along passively.

  I’m not going to let myself make these mistakes in Paris.

  But on to the aftermath of the accident. Here’s a tip if you ever get hit by a car while running late to a dinner party: Skip the dinner party. Call the police instead, or else they will think you are just a crazy Frankenstein-­faced liar when you show up at their precinct the next day.

  I need the driver to pay the hospital bills. New York is a no-­fault state, meaning that the person who caused the accident has to pay the bills—­my insurance won’t cover it. I find it all incredibly confusing, and there’s more to tell but it does hurt to type. I took off the cast myself today. My right thumb’s all black-­and-­blue and I may have to have surgery next week.

  Meanwhile, I’m so bored now that everyone’s at work, and I can’t turn the pages of a book without using my mouth. Entertain me! Tell me stories of deepest darkest China and witty Brits named George and what happens to him and an elusive halfie. Tell me about what you are writing for the magazine, and who you see, and what you do. I will be here, not crossing streets.

  Okay. I love you. Wish you were here so that there would be somebody else to wear pajamas all day with me and tell me how bad my face actually looks.

  More soon.

  Love,

  Rach

  MARCH 15

  Jess to Rachel

  You’re still alive! Frankenstein stitches and all! When we spoke on the phone and you were on Vicodin and antidepressants, you kept giggling about how the universe didn’t get you this time and then you would laugh maniacally.

  I’m also glad the universe didn’t get you—­who else would pet all the horses? Who else has hair that curls while she sleeps? Who else but you is convinced that you are the reincarnation of Grace Kelly because you have the same astrological chart? See? The universe needs your brand of crazy. No, but seriously, I’m so glad you’re going to be okay.

  And I bet that dinner party sucked. What did you really think you would have missed? Official Dinner Parties tend to be awkward and forced. Although I’m sure you showing up covered in blood was a great conversation starter for the evening. Also, makes you seem very mysterious.

  When George and I talked to you on the phone, he was supposed to be pretending to be Jude Law sending his well wishes, but he wasn’t being slick enough to be Jude and we started arguing and then the whole thing deteriorated into shouting about what Jude would or would not say. Sorry that you had to listen to that in the emergency room.

  But I guess it’s indicative of my relationship with George, which teeters between friends and an old bickering married couple.

  I would love to regale you with George stories like you asked. I wish I could weave you a tantalizing tale of seduction about a British man carrying me off into the sunset. But that is not the case.

  The truth. I have to tell it to someone, because maybe it will force me to stop what’s happening. In groups, George is the center of attention, usually half hanging off a chandelier while telling a story about the time he was so lonely he once befriended a sassy monkey who then stole all of his food in Malaysia, as the entire room hangs on his every word. And even at a distance, he maintains the same unwavering confidence and wit as he writes me e-mails on the hour and sends flurries of text messages.

  But when we’re alone, he becomes nervous, unrecognizable from the confident man I met the first night. He runs his hands through his messy black hair and he swallows a lot and his green eyes dart between my eyes and the floor. He says things like, “I’ve let my guard down around you, and I never do that with anybody.” I see a side of him he doesn’t show everyone—­how he can be hurt and how concerned he is with being more than the guy with a glossy, charming persona. Which makes me feel even worse about my mixed feelings.

  Inevitably, these introspective admissions conclude when he throws back a few more pints. In a determined manner, he takes my hands and looks at me with pleading eyes. He tries to lean in to kiss me, but it feels more like he’s thrusting his face forward and my lips are the target. I’m hyperaware of his clammy hands. His nervous eyes are begging me to love him back. And I know that my heart is racing for a different reason from his: sheer fear.

  I always break his gaze and then, embarrassed, he drops my hands, drinks a few more pints, and eventually drapes an arm over me as he tells me about how much his sister is going to love me, and how much fun we’ll have on our lovely drives (again, lovely) across the English countryside, and with each pint, he becomes more and more confident that we are already together and that we have a future filled with laughter and sunshine, and probably, I imagine, sexual romps on wild moors.

  I am fine with sunshine and laughter, but my body seems ambivalent about the sex part. The truth is that I’ve started something that I’m not prepared to finish. I don’t want someone to beg me to love him. I want the George who hangs off the chandelier, but I get the guy with pleading eyes and clammy hands. I can’t be romantic with him because his insecurity turns me off and I don’t feel attracted to him. And if I’m not his girlfriend, it’s too late for me to just be his friend.

  What’s it called when you’ve suddenly found yourself with a boyfriend straight off your Master List, but with whom you have no intention of sleeping?

  False advertising.

  But, he lets me see him every day. This is such a simple thing, but I don’t think I’ve ever had this with a man before. Men I’ve dated in the past were always elusive or busy or too scared to give away too much, but George gives me this.

  Still, I can’t dwell on this anymore right now. Astrid can’t take much more of it either. She says I need to make up my mind and let George know, sooner rather than later. I know she’s right.

  But in the grand scheme of life, the important thing is you’re actually alive and so am I! You survived a car crash! New York City almost took you out, and you survived! In time, you will cross streets like a pro again. You’ll be able to give an all-­star thumbs-­up. You’ll be left with a tiny silver scar across your forehead that will make a great story when you meet Parisians.

  Let me know how you’re doing now.

  Love,

  Jess

  P.S. I’m glad you’re alive.

  MARCH 21

  Jess to Rachel

  Are you alive?? No reply all week? You’re in danger of breaking our pact! I know you’re having trouble typing. Just type back one letter so I know you’re okay!

  Love,

  Jess

  MARCH 22

  Rachel to Jess

  Q

  APRIL 3

  Jess to Rachel

  Q is a dignified choice.

  Are you still off work, lying in your pajamas, recovering? Sort of the best thing ever, if you take away the trauma, broken thumb, bruised ribs, and face scar, right? Am I right?

  To distract you: Maybe you’ll be seeing me sooner than expected and all this George nonsense will be moot. My days in Beijing could be numbered because of a recent crackdown on foreigners working illegally here. My work visa is supposedly being processed, but I had to get a temporary one for now.

  In case you ever need to know, if you urgently need a visa to stay in Beijing, text a woman named Joy whom you meet at the McDonald’s on Second Ring Road, because everyone knows where that is. You’ll hand her a wad of cash. She’ll take your passport. Then a runner will head to Mongolia and get a new visa in your passport.
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  I just got back from the exchange and now I’m looking over my shoulder all the time, feeling like a criminal, although I actually have no idea if this is illegal or not. Better not to ask.

  I hope you, your forehead, your rib, your thumb, and your scrapes are healing as if aided by a phoenix’s teardrops.

  Love,

  Jess

  APRIL 10

  Rachel to Jess

  I just want you to know that I love you so much that against my doctor’s orders, I have removed my ACE bandage and am now typing very slowly.

  Before anything else, I just have to say: If you don’t want to have sex with George, then his impression of Jude Law was definitely lacking and not worth the sexual frustration you are inflicting upon him.

  Stitches on my face came out yesterday. It looks like I fell asleep with a spiral notebook under my eyebrow—­it’s raw but the doctor thinks that my scar will only be about an inch long from my eyebrow to my forehead.

  Twice a week, I go to physical therapy for my hand, where I sit on a bench and twiddle my thumb. Literally. Just move it back and forth. Stretch it a little sideways. I can feel other people there questioning my presence out of the corners of their eyes. But still. My thumb does hurt. I never knew how important it was! Do you know how many times we use our thumbs each day? Like, say, try buttoning your jeans. Every morning, I visit Rosabelle’s room and she fastens me up.

  I’ve had a lot to think about during my time off to recover from my injuries. In a weird way, hitting the pavement somehow stifled my constant anxiety. I didn’t realize this until I started going back to work and noticed that I care less about what the person next to me on the subway thinks of me, or if everyone at work loves me, or if I have to wait thirty minutes for the next bus. I don’t care if Buster is taking too long in the shower (although I still don’t want to think about what he’s doing in there).