“What else did the doctor say?” I ask, and when Jeremy looks at me, hard, I add, “About the procedure?”
“I don’t know. I stopped listening. He was talking percentages, success rates. I was getting angry, kind of, like, he was getting us so excited about this and at the same time he was telling us that there’s such a small chance it’ll even work. They’re so determined. My mother—like when she’s planning a party for one of her charities and everything’s up in the air and the caterer’s canceled and the tickets aren’t selling, she always knows how to get everything right so that it’s perfect on party night. She loves solving problems, getting all the answers. Like this is no different from that.”
“Well, maybe it isn’t.” Jeremy looks at me, shocked. “I just mean, well, I figure the doctor knows better than the rest of us. He’s supposed to be the best.” And then I see an opportunity to steer the conversation back to me, and even though I know I shouldn’t be so selfish, I say, “I’m sure that’s why my family chose him.” Without a cigarette, I can crush my hands into fists inside my pockets.
“Huh?”
“Why my parents went to him—to Dr. Kleinbaum, for my dad.”
Jeremy blinks. “Of course,” he says, and it’s like he’s remembered his manners, or remembered I’m there, or something. “I didn’t get anything about your dad, Sternin.”
“What?” I spit the word out hotly, watch the cloud that my breath makes.
“He didn’t tell me anything.”
“Did you ask?”
“Yes, but he said he couldn’t tell me anything.”
“Didn’t he say anything?”
“No.”
“Well, tell me what the conversation was.”
“I’m so tired, Sternin,” he says, and I can tell he’s expecting me to stop talking about my father—to reach out to him, give him a hug, rub his back, tell him it will be okay. But I don’t; I’m still thinking about my father. I’m still waiting for him to tell me about the conversation, and he knows it. Jeremy steps away from me, and my hair whips in front of me, so that I can’t see Jeremy’s face anymore. I realize he’d been blocking the wind for me.
“He didn’t tell me anything,” he says, and it’s strange not to be able to see him when he’s talking to me. I press my hair behind my ears. “Nothing that matters.” Jeremy says with finality, as though that’s that and there’s no point in talking anymore.
“It matters to me. You promised,” I insist. I sound like a spoiled five-year-old.
“Jesus, Sternin, he didn’t tell me anything. I’m sorry.” Jeremy’s voiced is raised. He doesn’t sound sorry.
“You don’t sound sorry.”
“Well, fuck it, Sternin”—he throws his hands in the air helplessly—“I’m dealing with some shit of my own here.”
“God, you didn’t even try, did you? You didn’t even try to talk to him about my dad. Did you even mention it to him at all?” My toes curl and clench inside my shoes.
“I told you, Sternin—what, you think I’m a liar now?”
“I don’t know what to think. You promised to help me and now you’re yelling at me like I made you do it. It was your fucking idea.”
“I tried. Jesus!” Jeremy is shouting now. “What the hell is the matter with you? You think your father dying over a decade ago matters anywhere near as much as my sister dying now?”
“Yes, I think it’s important,” I say, almost yelling. “I thought you did too.”
I can’t believe I said that. I can’t believe I’m being so selfish. I should be focused on Kate. I should remember that we can talk about my father some other time, sometime later; tomorrow, even. But I can’t; I’m too mad. I only confided in Jeremy because I thought he understood that it was important; I thought he understood me. But maybe he never did.
He’s back up on his throne now, a million miles away from me. My problems aren’t nearly as important as those of the royal family. Even if they’re not all that different.
I’m seething. I can’t remember having ever been this mad at someone. I only realize I’m crying because when the wind blows, my tears are cold against my face.
Quietly, like it’s the beginning of an apology, Jeremy says, “Look, Sternin,” but I cut him off.
“Fuck you, Jeremy.” My anger has made me feel strong. “I trusted you. Fuck you.” I turn away from him and stomp into my lobby and press for the elevator. I don’t turn around in case he’s still there, watching me as I wait like an idiot for the elevator to come. It’s taking forever. Of all the times for it not to be here. So much for a dramatic exit. I’m angry at the elevator now too. These things don’t happen to people who live in the suburbs.
But when it finally comes, I step inside and turn around, and as the door closes, I see that he’s not there anyway, not waiting to say anything more, and I’m sure he walked away just as soon as I turned my back to him.
Later, when I can’t sleep, I look again at the picture of my parents. I turn the light on this time, stare at my mother’s legs across my father’s lap, his hand supporting her back. I want the picture to tell me something; to reveal something about the man my father was, the life he and my mother had. But I’ve stared at it before; the picture has nothing else to tell me. I resist the urge to crumple it up before putting it back in its place between the pages of the book.
Jeremy isn’t in school on Thursday, which is also the last day before winter break begins. School will be out until the new year. I’m not surprised, since he said he was getting tested today. In the light of day, I can see that I should call him, see how it went, see if it hurt as much as he was scared it would. I consider leaving physics class—pretending to go to the bathroom and calling him. I go so far as to begin to scoot off the tall lab stool. The tips of my shoes hit the floor, but then I change my mind. I slide back onto my seat and stare straight ahead at the chalkboard. I can’t forget that Jeremy and I fought. I know I said awful things, and I can’t imagine he’d want to hear from me right now.
But I want to know that Jeremy’s okay; that Kate’s okay. I tell myself that if something serious had happened, Jeremy would still call me.
School is different without Jeremy here. Lonelier. I eat lunch in the library. Over the last few weeks, Jeremy and I worked through lunch all the time. Sat in the library going over SAT words, taking bites of sandwiches in between. I never felt lonely then. But now I can’t imagine how I ever sat here by myself.
I wonder if Jeremy will come over for his bedtime cigarette. I wonder if his parents will ask why I’m not coming over for dinner tonight. It’s not fair that Jeremy doesn’t have to be lonely without me; he has his family to eat with tonight and I’ll be eating alone in front of the TV. And when he comes back to school, he’ll still have plenty of people to sit with at lunchtime.
17
My mother doesn’t comment when I walk in the door at three-fifteen on the nose, but I’m sure she notices it. I haven’t come straight home after school in ages, or if I have, Jeremy is with me and it’s only to pick up some things before heading down to the Coles’. Even yesterday, Jeremy and I went to get some coffee after school before he went home for dinner with Dr. Kleinbaum. I know my mother is dying to ask why I’m home so early. I bet she thinks it’s something tragic, like something terrible happened to Kate, and I bet she’s so excited at the idea that I would know before the rest of the city because she thinks that as far as the Coles are concerned, I’m practically family.
Then I walk past her on the way to my room—she’s sitting on the living room couch, reading some book I know she stole off my shelves. No, I feel guilty for thinking something like that. However much my mother loves her New York City gossip, however much she’d like to be a part of the Coles’ world, she’s been through tragedy herself (even if I don’t know the damn details), and I’m sure she’d never derive pleasure from being the first to know something awful like that. No matter how hot the gossip. She chews the pinkie finger on her left han
d when she reads, just like the sixth graders do when you see them sitting in the hallway between classes, backs up against the lockers, eyes scanning the chapter they’re behind on in Little Women.
It’s six-fifteen when my mother knocks on my door. I’m studying, even though today was the last day of school before winter break. I was hoping that physics would keep my mind from wandering and landing on Jeremy and Kate.
My mom opens the door. “Honey, are you staying home for dinner?”
I pretend to be completely absorbed in my work. My back is to her because I’m lying on my stomach, my books splayed out across the bed in front of me. I arch my back and turn my neck to face her. I’m scared she’ll ask why I’m not at the Coles’.
“Honey?”
“Hmm?”
“Are you going to be home for dinner?”
“Oh, yeah, I guess.” I try to sound like I haven’t thought about it. “I’m not really that hungry,” I lie.
“Well, I was going to order something, if you’d like that. I wasn’t expecting that you’d be home.” She says that as though it explains her not having cooked.
“Sure. Whatever you want.”
“Oh, I don’t know.” She steps into the room; sits on the edge of my bed, disturbing my notes. It occurs to me that this is the first time we’ll have had dinner together since that night at the diner. I remember how sad I made her that night, how her voice dropped when I brought up my father, and I consider telling her that I have to study, so that I can eat in my room and not have to sit across the table from her.
“Maybe Chinese?” she suggests.
“Sure, that’s fine.”
“Or we could order from that diner you like.”
“Okay.” I keep my eyes on my physics text.
“Or pizza—how about pizza?”
I put down my highlighter and look up.
“Mom, really, whatever you want is fine with me. I just have a lot of work to get done tonight.”
“Oh,” she says, and for just a second, I think she looks heart-breakingly, achingly sad. The expression leaves her face almost before I think I see it. I wonder if she misses me. Sometimes, even though we’re both right here in this apartment, I miss her.
“I’m sorry, Mom. It’s just … physics.”
“Jeremy isn’t tutoring you anymore?”
“No, he is.” I swing around so that I’m sitting up, cross-legged on the bed, facing her. “He was just home sick today, so, you know, he can’t help me.” I look her straight in the eye when I lie. She knows nothing about my friendship with him, I think, so she can’t tell that I’m lying. Technically, I don’t even have to be studying now. I wonder if my mother remembers that school is out for the next week and a half.
“Oh, that’s too bad. I hope he feels better soon.”
“Yeah, me too,” I say, like it’s no big deal. “Anyway, pizza sounds good. Pepperoni and onions on my half, okay?”
“Okay.” She gets up from the bed and heads for the door. I lie back down to face my notes, so that my back is to the door again.
“What’s the matter?” she says.
“Huh?” I say, frightened, swinging back around to face her, messing up my notes even more. I don’t want to tell her what’s the matter with me tonight.
“With Jeremy? What kind of sick is he?” Oh. My shoulders slump with relief; I’d already forgotten about that lie.
I shrug. “Some kind of flu that’s been going around.”
“Oh, I’ve heard about that.”
I stifle a mean laugh. Since I made up that a flu was going around, I’m either benefiting from the coincidence that there is an actual flu going around, or from my mother’s desire to act like she’s in the know.
“I hope that he’s staying away from Kate,” she says. “I mean, with all that chemo, her immune system must be compromised.”
“Yeah.” I hadn’t thought about that. “I’m sure he is.” By this time, my mother has heard the details of Kate’s illness through the grapevine. I get a little guilty satisfaction from knowing that I know so much more than she does, and that I know because the Coles have told me themselves. After all, she’s kept so much from me.
“Of course. He’d never jeopardize her health.”
“Of course.”
She pauses at my door. I wonder what more she wants. But then she turns and I hear her padding down the hall, and then ordering the pizza. When it comes, I do drag myself out of my room and sit at the table, but I bring my physics book with me. I just kind of stare at it while I eat.
“You can have the last slice, honey.”
“That’s okay, I’m full.”
“Me too,” my mother says, and laughs. I don’t really understand why both of us being full is funny, but I smile back. And I definitely don’t know why I choose to ruin this moment by asking, “Do I look like my father?”
“What?” she says, anxiety making her voice high-pitched, turning the end of her laughter into cackles.
“Well, it’s just, I look nothing like you—I figure I must take after him.”
She doesn’t say anything, and I keep going. Maybe I’m testing her strength, or maybe I’m testing mine. Certainly I’m justifying her fear of being alone with me.
I lean back in my chair, cross my legs under me. “I’m taller than you, and I have straight hair, and my eyes are gray and yours are green. Plus, my mouth is much wider than yours.” I list all this as though she needs to be told. As though it’s not evident to anyone who sees us just walking down the street. Strangers would assume I take after my father.
“You’ve seen pictures of him,” she says slowly, maybe angrily. “Judge for yourself.”
“I guess I meant, do you think I look like him? Do I remind you of him?”
She doesn’t say anything and begins to gather our plates, forks, and knives. I follow her into the kitchen. “Can’t you at least tell me that?” I say.
“No,” she says, and I think she’s refusing me, but then she goes on. “You don’t remind me of him. You didn’t ever—you never got to spend time with him, and so you never picked up his mannerisms, the way he gestured when he talked, the odd expressions he used—things like that.”
She continues, “Maybe you picked up some of his habits from me—I mean, I’m sure I picked things like that up from him, living with him for all those years. But by the time … by the end, I couldn’t remember which ones had started out as his and which as mine.”
She stops loading the dishwasher long enough to remember one thing. “He used the word ‘ma’am’ a lot, I think as a joke. He’d say ‘Yes, ma’am’ to me when I was giving him a hard time. I started saying ‘ma’am’ too, to my mother, to friends; I just randomly picked up the word. I don’t remember when I stopped using it.”
The dishes are all in the dishwasher, and she wipes her hands on the dish towel by the sink.
“Anyway”—she looks at the table, at my physics book—“good luck with your studying.” I take the cue and head back to my room. It’s the most I can remember her ever telling me about my father.
I think: I’ll tell Jeremy when he comes over for his bedtime cigarette. And then I remember that he isn’t coming. And then all I can think about is Jeremy. I want to know how Kate is, and I want to know how Jeremy’s test went today. I take forever to fall asleep that night. I pile three blankets on top of me, thinking that their weight will help keep me still. For the first time in a while, I imagine my fairy godmother is there—but even she can’t comfort me.
I don’t hear from Jeremy during winter break. My mother and I spend the holidays as we always do: pretty much exactly the same way we spend the rest of the year, but with more free time. On Christmas Day, we always go to the movies, come home, and order in Chinese food. This year, we go to see the new Woody Allen movie and it’s sold out when we get there, so we have to wait for the next showing.
“So this is where all the Jews are,” I joke to my mother, who laughs for a long time.
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The movie theater is across the street from the ice cream parlor where Jeremy, Kate, and I went. Maybe Kate is doing better now; maybe she’s gotten the bone marrow and it’s working. I picture them eating ice cream; I don’t think I’ve ever wished so hard for one of my fantasies to come true.
I spend New Year’s Eve fighting with computer customer service, since I can’t access my e-mail. I don’t know why I’m so determined to check it anyway. Maybe I think that there will be a “Happy New Year” e-mail from Jeremy, or from Kate. I tell myself that if only I can get online, I will e-mail them, find out how Kate is, wish them happy holidays. But I know it won’t come true. I’m too scared; I don’t think Jeremy would want to hear from me right now.
But it feels strange not to know where Jeremy is. Maybe he’s at the hospital, recovering from donating bone marrow—although I don’t even know how long you have to stay at the hospital for something like that. For all I know, he’s only a couple dozen blocks south of me, in their den, watching the ball drop with Kate asleep on his shoulder. I’m already in bed. I feel left out.
Jeremy isn’t at school the first day back. No one ever does this—takes off the last day before the break and the first day after—the school doesn’t like kids’ families trying to extend vacation, so it’s an unexcused absence and you get detention. I’m near tears in physics class. Maybe it’s because I don’t understand anything, even though I studied hard over the break, and without Jeremy there to help me, it seems like I never will. A row of F’s and D’s stretches out frighteningly in front of me. Or maybe it’s because physics was almost fun with Jeremy here—school was more fun—and having lost my best friend, I hardly know what to do with myself.
I decide to allow myself to fantasize about something; anything to distract me from the teacher, whose words I can’t follow, and from the way that Jeremy’s empty stool behind me feels like it’s staring at me. I rest my chin in my hand. I hope the teacher doesn’t notice I’ve stopped taking notes.
The Beautiful Between Page 12
