by Ann Jacobus
Wait, she thinks, what about safe sex?
Ha! It doesn’t matter.
* * *
Later she pulls herself across the dark room, drawn to the pale silver light coming in the giant French window. She presses her cheek against the thick silk curtains, held back with braided cord and tassels.
The Eiffel Tower is doing its sparkler thing across the river while the searchlight on top sweeps the entire dark city, over and over. Looking for what? Lost souls. It’s the saddest thing she’s ever seen.
Even though she thought she did, she doesn’t want to eat snails by candlelight or hold hands through museums filled with Impressionist art. She certainly doesn’t want to go to school.
And she doesn’t deserve or want her grandpa’s fortune. Not even a little bit. Never did.
“Must be midnight,” she mumbles. All those snowflakes. They didn’t blow away. They piled up and froze solid all the way through her. Summer, the giant ice statue. It’s hard to function when you’re an ice statue. It’s impossible once you’ve shattered.
He’s behind her. She turns around. He gently takes her face in his hand. “I have your word?”
She opens her mouth, then closes it. Opens it again. “What?”
“Don’t play coy,” he growls. “What do you think I want your word on?”
“Suicide,” she whispers.
“Bingo!”
“Yes,” she says, closing her eyes. “But not tonight. Tomorrow.” He is in charge, but at least she can do it her own way.
The front door slams and Kurt is gone.
FORTY-SEVEN
Summer gets up very late the next day. Tuesday, December 17.
Dad’s anniversary.
Even though she didn’t sleep much, she feels more energetic than she has in a long time. Some of the icebergs that have been pressing her down, have … shrunk a little. Climate change. She knows what she needs to do.
She finally has purpose.
After her shower, she looks at her body in the mirror while drying herself off. Soon, it won’t exist anymore. What a relief.
In the kitchen Ouaiba is cutting up fruit. “Bonjour, mademoiselle,” she says. “Pas d’école?” She apparently gave up worrying about Summer’s sleep habits and trying to get her to eat weeks ago.
“No school,” Summer confirms. It’s her own personal holiday: Last Day on Earth.
She drinks some OJ and glances at the back page of the International Herald Tribune. Next to a classified ad thanking Saint Jude, the SOS headline catches Summer’s eye. FEELING DOWN? NEED TO TALK TO SOMEONE? Then at the bottom, FEELING SUICIDAL? The telephone number hasn’t changed.
“Ouaiba?”
“Oui?”
“J’ai besoin de … wire cutters.” Summer holds her two fingers up and opens them like scissors.
“Des ciseaux?”
“No, stronger. Plus fort. For wire. Pour fil? Corde? Métalique?”
“Ah, bon?” She’s perplexed.
“Pour un projet d’école,” Summer lies. What kind of school assignment would require wire cutters she’ll leave to Ouaiba’s imagination. Summer does not want kind, tolerant Ouaiba complicit in her plans in any way. She could probably get in trouble later. Summer will have to cover that in her note. “Where can I get them?” Maybe there’s a toolbox around here somewhere.
Ouaiba nods. She knows where some might be.
The house phone rings and Summer ignores it. But she checks for the blinking red voicemail light afterward just in case. There’s an old message from Dr. Garnier that Summer skips. Next, it’s Madame Simone again, the eleventh- and twelfth-grade counselor. She’s been calling for two weeks. Then, Mr. Evans, the dean of students. Now she’s really in serious trouble. Missed exam this morning, meeting with her mom, expulsion, blah, blah, blah. Summer erases the messages without listening to them. She’s sorry to have caused them all the hassle.
It doesn’t matter. Soon, she’ll no longer exist. A quietness has settled inside that is completely unfamiliar, and already, almost … relief.
Except for Moony.
Summer hasn’t checked her own phone since early the previous day. And she didn’t see him at school yesterday. She turns on her cell. She can leave it on now.
Three texts, five missed calls, and one voicemail. All from Moony.
Oh, and one from Dr. Garnier that Summer deletes.
At the sound of Moony’s voice on the one message he left, her throat constricts. What will she do about him? What will she do without him? She wonders if she’ll be able to see him—like, once she’s gone. Watch him. Watch over him, even. During his operation.
Probably not.
He’s in class now, but she texts him:
Sorry, phone was off. All’s well.
He immediately texts back:
Where r u?
Home.
Coming to school?
Not today.
Can I come by after exam?
She hesitates. Nothing could be better than to see him, to throw herself at him and never let go, actually.
He might mess up her resolve, but she texts back:
Sure.
Her resolve is firm. She wants to thank Moony and say good-bye without alarming him. He’s already worried about her. More than anything, she doesn’t want to hurt him. He doesn’t know it yet, but he will be infinitely better off once she’s gone.
* * *
In her room, Summer checks through all of her stuff like someone else going through it after the fact. She writes a short note to Aunt Liz that says, “I love you. Please don’t be mad or sad,” and puts it in an envelope in her underwear drawer. She unpacks the duffel bag under her bed, and uses it to take all the empty liquor bottles from her drawers and closet down to the green recycling bin in the courtyard. When she comes back up, there’s a gray plastic bag on her bed. From a hardware chain store. Summer pulls out what looks like pliers. Good. Wire cutters.
The intercom buzzes. She runs down the hall to answer it.
“Moony!” Summer says. “I’ll be right down.”
FORTY-EIGHT
“Sorry I was MIA there. My cell phone was off,” Summer says as she kisses Moony’s cheeks hello. Those dragonflies are jousting in her middle. Just pretend like everything’s … normal.
He holds her by the shoulder and studies her face. “You’re okay?”
“Yes.” She looks down. “I’m fine.”
“Been worried.”
“How were exams?” She wiggles her nose ring.
“Hunky. Not taking them?” He asks like this is a perfectly reasonable decision to make. His face is pale and shadowed under his eyes.
“No, I was going to, but the voices told me to stay home and clean my weapons.”
Moony’s eyebrows shoot up.
“Ha. Sorry. Just joking. Want to go get something to eat? I’ll fill you in.”
He’s using the cane and moves slowly. They walk to a Moroccan restaurant two blocks away and sit in a low, peacock-blue silk-cushioned booth. The smell of roasting meat, saffron, and cardamom surrounds them. Moony’s back is to the window. Car lights and Christmas strands blink on the street over his shoulder.
They chat about unimportant things. She’s going to put him at ease if it kills her. He’s watching her every move.
Moony orders the lamb tahini and mint tea and Summer orders couscous and sparkling water. Moony asks, “One day at a time?” A nice way of asking, Are you sober?
“Yeah,” she says. For you. “Today’s the first day of the rest of my life.” It’s also the last. He looks at her funny, so she adds quickly, “Thanks for going to that meeting with me. I should go back.” Ain’t that the truth.
“You’re quiet,” he says, looking puzzled. She feels like she’s been talking a lot. “Seem different.”
I’m committed, she thinks. Sadly to someone else. But it’s for you.
The waiter places a bowl of raw veggies and olives in front of them.
M
oony pops an olive into his mouth.
Outside, a man in a fedora walks by the restaurant, pauses and looks in. It’s Kurt. He winks at her over Moony’s shoulder, points at his watch, then walks on.
Summer smiles. It’s kind of funny. That Kurt’s not nearly as scary to her as Moony.
She must do what she came here to do. “So, what I wanted to talk to you about is … that I’m leaving.”
Moony blinks. “When?”
“Um, Saturday.”
His face falls. “Thought you weren’t going to.”
“Moony, I’ve got to.”
“Back to the US?”
“Yeah,” she fibs.
“Where?”
“San Francisco.”
He leans forward. “Because of that guy?”
Summer blinks and curls the corner of her napkin in her lap. “I—No. Because I just want to go home.” She should ask him why he called Kurt Egyptian.
Moony looks at her questioningly, with pain in his eyes. He sees through her!
He says, “No gummy bears?”
“Oh, crap! After your operation.” He’s going in the hospital in another week. The day after Christmas and five days after she supposedly “flies” to SF. High-voltage guilt zaps her. Can’t she at least wait until after his surgery is over? Especially one he’s dreading?
But it’s impossible. That’s next week. The sooner she removes herself from the world, and his life, the better. Tonight is the night.
She doesn’t know what to say. Lie some more: I’ll send you some? Tell the truth: No, I’ll be dead? She must be so careful not to alarm him. No one else will give a fig when she croaks. But he will. She cannot have Moony feeling guilty when he finds out. It’s the only thing she’s worried about.
“I’m so sorry I won’t be here for your operation,” she says carefully. He’s been here for her, totally and completely and at great cost to himself. “I have to … leave. Now.” One day he’ll understand.
He says somberly, “I’ll miss you.” He picks up a carrot stick and points it at her. “Chickening out on me.”
She’s digging her nails into her palms under the table. “I will miss you, more than you know, Moony. Please, please say you’ll forgive me.” What a terrible, shitty friend she has been.
“But you’re here through the week,” he says, looking sad and old. She sure seems to have a way of aging her friends. “And what about exams?”
It’s Tuesday. Four more days until Saturday. She should have said she’s leaving sooner. Because she is. “Uh, yeah. There are those.” She crosses her fingers beneath the table.
“You’ll come back, visit your mom, right?”
“Sure.” She presses her nose ring, closing her eyes. This sucks so much. Lying to the only person that matters. Could she just tell him the truth?
No. It’s too late.
“No scholarship,” he says. “University of Missouri turned me down.”
She looks up at him, her heart sinking. “Oh, no. How could they? Why?”
“Went to a Missouri resident. Maybe get partial.”
“I’m so sorry. They’re such stupid-heads.”
“Way it goes,” he says cheerfully. But he looks totally bummed.
The waiter brings their main courses.
She wants to give Moony something to remember her by. Her flask comes to mind, but he wouldn’t like it. She would gladly turn her grandpa’s money over to him, but it will never be hers to give. Sacrebleu, what he could do with it. He could go to any school he wanted. Pay for a whole flipping building at the University of Missouri. The St. Moony Physical Rehabilitation Center. It wouldn’t warp him, it would fortify him. Goodness would spread out into the world via all the disabled people he would return to function and health.
She grips her thighs. “No matter what, I want you to know that you’ve been the best, most wonderful friend I’ve ever had. That you’ve helped me as much as anyone possibly could have, during … a hard time. That I only want what’s best for you. That I love you.” It’s all she has to give.
He grins like a little kid. And gazes at her. “You’re so beautiful,” he says softly. “You don’t always let people see it.”
“What?”
“Sometimes, your expression, can be … defensive. Not to me,” he says, “but to some.”
She’s not a complete chicken, contrary to what he thinks. She takes his good left hand. And clasps her fingers with his. He falters for a split second, but keeps talking. She’s surprised him and she’s glad. He smiles. Not a goofy smile, but an I don’t know what to do with you smile that goes along with someone shaking their head in frustration. Only he doesn’t.
Once again, her hand in his feels so right it scares her. She wants to let go, but she makes herself hang on. She closes her eyes and feels that electricity, that force in him, flowing into her through their touching skin. It’s powerful. It feels like it could melt icebergs, or even frozen continents.
She squeezes his hand, then releases it so he can eat his tahini. She switches to his right hand, hard and curled like a beige and pink seashell. He doesn’t pull it back, and she caresses the taut skin stretched over his misshapen bones. Then he takes her hand with both his strong one and the damaged one, as she closes her eyes memorizing this moment.
He gently lets go and continues to feed himself both his and her dinner.
Why can’t she hang on for Moony’s sake? Another day, another week. Love Moony and stay alive.
She does love him. All of him. So much it threatens to drive her bananas.
They pay and she walks him to the Métro.
At the top of the steps, Summer pulls Moony to her and hugs him hard, desperately, feeling his muscular and lumpy, bony body close against hers. His warmth and love make Kurt’s poisonous iciness a distant memory. She doesn’t want to let go.
He hugs her back. “What’s this for?” he asks, smiling.
“I’m not leading you on,” she warns. “It’s … nothing special. For being there. I’m going to be sort of busy the next couple of days, so just in case I don’t see you. Before I leave. Good night.” She kisses him smack on the lips.
Adieu, dear Moony.
FORTY-NINE
That evening at Mom’s apartment, the doorbell rings. Before she checks the peephole, Summer knows who it is.
Kurt stands there, with a huge armful of flowers—white lilies.
“We got no reason, no reason to go onnnn!” he belts out. She opens the door and he hands her the elaborate bouquet. Their sweet scent doesn’t begin to cover up Kurt’s malodor. She looks at him quizzically.
“Kentucky Morris,” he says, as he walks passed her and tosses his coat on the Louis XV table.
“I know. No kiss?” She doesn’t regret their encounter last night. Funny thing.
He kisses her gently on the mouth. She coughs.
“Cool flowers,” she says. She takes them to the kitchen and puts them in a crystal vase full of water.
“Big, big night, little darlin’,” he says. “Love of my life.”
“Hmm-mmm,” she agrees.
“Let’s go for a walk. Plan our future together.”
“How romantic.” She gets her jacket. A stroll, hand-in-hand on this, her last evening, is perfect.
They end up on a quay by the Seine and light cigarettes. The river air wafts around them damp, dark, and cold, although streetlamps every so often cast pale yellow pools on the stone path and the embankment wall beside them. Kurt holds her hand. His touch is warm and reassuring. “My favorite,” he says, as they stare at the swirling black water, supposedly at a ten-year high.
“You think I should jump into the river?” It’s not appealing.
“You’re an excellent swimmer.”
“Thank you.”
“But it’s faster and more violent beneath the surface than it looks. You could always put stones in your pockets.”
“Like Virginia Woolf.”
“Exactly.” He bl
ows three smoke rings.
She stares at the fast-moving current. Strange shapes seem to bubble up to just below the dark surface, before being sucked back down. She shudders. “Yeah, but it’s full of chemicals and rats and two-by-fours and stuff.”
“It’s not that bad.”
From Kurt’s gift flask, she takes a swig of aged Armagnac. She hands it to Kurt. The mellow fumes fill her nose and entire head. It is better than the Monoprix stuff. The bottle was hidden in the back of the big living room bookcase. Mom will have to find a new spot.
Actually, she won’t.
A brightly lit Bateau Mouche forces its way against the current. Hundreds of people are seated on the lower deck inside. A few tourists have braved the cold and sit on the open upper deck. One guy does a double take at them. Kurt waves at him. He waves back.
“You do know a lot of people.” She laughs.
“Yep. Never met a stranger.” He winks at her, then hands her back the flask. “But I know some people much better than others.” City bus brakes squeal on the quay road. Kurt says, “You could step in front of a bus. They’re heavy enough that one tap—”
She pictures herself sprawled in the middle of a cobblestone street. “No. Kids might be on it.”
“I’m telling you, the river is a winner,” he says, after taking a long draw. “Step into it right now and be done with it.”
Summer stares into his sultry eyes for several beats. “I have some questions for you.”
“Oh?”
“Now that I’m … committed.”
He purses his sexy lips, and crosses his arms. “All right, then. Go ahead.”
“So, who are you, exactly?”
“I’m who I say I am.”
She rolls her eyes. “Could you elaborate?”
“I’m your lover. Your partner. Your soul. Your friend.”
