My Beautiful Failure

by Janet Ruth Young

  All right. Well. Jenney took a deep breath. I’ve been through some changes lately. A lot of changes, and not for the better. Hello? Are you there?

  “Yes. Go ahead.”

  Okay, I was all set to start college, at St. Angus’s. Do you know St. Angus’s?

  “Tell me about it.”

  It’s an elite women’s college in New Hampshire. It’s often called the Eighth Seven Sister.

  “Mm-hmm.”

  My mother went there, and my grandmother and her mother, and so on from way, way back. It’s really selective, and the women who graduate from there often become very successful. My mom made friends there that she’s stayed in touch with for, like, her whole life. It’s in Molton, one of those perfect little New England towns with the white church steeple in the center.

  “It sounds great. What happened?”

  Well, I got accepted. I mean, they were really excited about having me come to the school. The admissions office was. Because not only would I probably have gotten in as a legacy because of my mom and grandmom and everybody, but I got in on my own merits. I think that’s really important, don’t you?

  “You got in on your own merits.”

  You’re repeating me. Don’t you think that’s important?

  “It’s important to you. That’s what matters. So you got accepted.”

  Right. They offered me a partial scholarship because of my swimming.

  “You’re a swimmer.”

  Yes, I have a trophy and everything. Did you go to Hawthorne High?

  “You have a trophy.”

  I have a trophy in Hawthorne High, in the case in the front lobby. Because my grades were great too. I can say that to you because you seem pretty smart yourself, and you won’t think I’m conceited. So I actually got in to all three of my top schools that I applied to.

  “And you decided to go somewhere else?”

  I didn’t go at all.

  “Why not?”

  Because I started freaking out. The summer before school. I had a kind of . . . breakdown. Like a meltdown.

  “That sounds awful. I’m so sorry.”

  Well, it was awful. It was terrible. . . . It was a nightmare. The soft clicking sound started again, a shutter moving in the back of her throat.

  “Take your time.” I didn’t know what else to say.

  Okay. Jenney’s voice was clear again. It was late July, early August. I was getting ready for school—e-mailing my new roommate, buying odds and ends for the dorm room—and I suddenly felt like I was somewhere else. I got disoriented, and I panicked, like something really bad was about to happen. I didn’t feel like Ms. Successful College Student. I felt small and helpless, like I was suffocating, and I could barely see the four walls around me, which were in my bedroom at home.

  “You felt small and helpless. Why do you think you felt that way?”

  Because I was having a flashback. To my childhood. I was horribly abused as a child.

  “By who?”

  By my parents. Both of them.

  “Your mother, too? Your mother who went to St. Angus’s?”

  That’s right. My mother who went to St. Angus’s. Who did everything right and was a big success story and a famous social butterfly. My mom who wrote books and my dad who owned a TV station. But the two of them, nobody knew it at the time, but those two were hurting me all along. These two supposedly great parents turned out to be the most evil people on the planet.

  I looked at the clock—8:52. I had to end the call, but I had no idea how. What would I say? What Jenney’s parents did was wrong. No parent had the right to hurt a kid. People like that shouldn’t even have kids. That’s what I would have said to someone else. But that was my opinion, and we didn’t give opinions at Listeners.

  “I’m so sorry, but I have to go in a minute.”

  I know you have to go. You have to go just when I pulled off this scab that covers my heart. That’s what they all say at Listeners.

  “I can give you one more minute,” I said. “I’ve really enjoyed talking to you. I hope things get better and I hope you call again.”

  All right, she said as the clicking began again. That’s the thing about Listeners. You expect us to turn our emotions off and on like a faucet. I waited, and the clicking stopped. All right, that’s enough for tonight. I’m sure I’ll be okay. You know, talking to you about all this made me feel a little better.

  “It did? I’m glad. I’m really glad you called, Jenney. I mean, we’re really glad you called.”

  I do feel better. Talking to someone who believes me. You’re a great guy, Billy, did you know that?

  “Thanks. Good night, Jenney.”

  I can’t believe you’re new. You’re practically the best one over there. ’Night.

  22.

  a dark side

  Dial tone. Now I knew what Richie meant about the planets, because Jenney’s world disappeared and I was back in the office. My replacement, a college student named Vince who would be covering the overnight shift, grasped the back of my chair.

  I told him I was a little freaked out and needed a minute. I ran one hand over my hair and face. My skin felt damp. I wasn’t sure what Jenney meant when she said she’d been abused. My parents had never hit me or Linda. I knew that kids got sexually abused, but I never knew anyone who said they did. And a kid in my neighborhood who moved from place to place often because his parents were in the military had a black eye a few times and his arm in a cast. My mom was disgusted and wanted to say something to his parents, but they moved away before she could say anything. What kind of hurting was Jenney talking about?

  23.

  picturing

  At the end of the shift, Margaret, Richie, and I took the elevator to the first floor of Cabot Insurance. Their parents picked them up while I unlocked my bike.

  I found myself conjuring a face to match Jenney’s voice. What would she look like? She was a swimmer and her parents were rich, so she was probably at least average. Athletes usually look good. And rich people can fix all the defects that poor people live with. She wouldn’t have weird teeth or an odd-looking nose. A picture swam into my mind: a slim girl in a one-piece Olympic-style bathing suit, with wavy wheat-colored hair in a damp braid. But then I told myself that as a Listener I talked only to the inner person, so Jenney’s looks didn’t matter.

  In high school everyone says how cool it is to be different or unusual, but most of your friendships are based on being alike, and the people who are most like everyone else seem to get the most friends. You can pick them out on sight, Generic High School Kid, because they’re always either laughing or on the phone or both, and the fact that they’re never left with their own thoughts makes everyone want to be their friend.

  I was never that guy, and if Jenney had ever been that girl, she wasn’t anymore.

  24.

  beacon

  My school is famous, or at least freakish, for having the only regulation football field in the United States that’s below sea level. A deep canal was cut along the outer edge of the field, so we students get used to looking up from an English essay and seeing a sail appearing to coast through the grass, or a group of tourists lining the rail of a whale-watch boat and looking into the classroom with their binoculars. The clock tower above the administration building is a landmark for sailors and appears on many navigational charts, and all our sports teams are called Schooners.

  The Monday after my first talk with Jenney, I locked my bike in front of the main doors and kept my eyes straight ahead as I passed the trophy cases. Just as Jenney’s looks were none of my business, her last name and year of graduation were not my business either. Signs leading from the cases to the athletic department exhorted SUCCESS DOESN’T COME TO YOU—YOU GO TO IT and BE LIKE A POSTAGE STAMP: STICK TO ONE THING UNTIL YOU GET THERE.

  In history of music, Mr. Gabler assigned us a five-page paper on the instrument of our choice. “That’s five pages, five sources,” he said. “The sources can be a
ny type you want—blogs, TV shows, documentaries, YouTube videos, recordings—as long as you document them properly. For our next class I want you to give me your choice of instrument and your five sources.”

  Gordy walked to lunch with me after class. “How was it?” he asked.

  “Kind of a letdown,” I said. I looked at him for commiseration. “Nobody was actually suicidal.”

  “That’s good, though, isn’t it?” He stopped walking and watched my face. I could see he wanted to strike the correct tone but was confused.

  “No, you’re right. I’m glad no one was considering offing himself. But you know my neighbor who became an EMT? How he was all, like, puffed up when he got a medic certificate and came home in that uniform? I expected to feel like that. To get an adrenaline rush from saving lives.”

  Gordon stopped at his locker for his insulated lunch bag, and I wondered what was in it. A crowd of students came toward us. Andy walked behind a girl and imitated the sway of her butt, in an effort to make Mitchell laugh.

  “Do me a favor, okay?” I asked Gordy, turning my back on the oncoming crowd.

  “What’s that?”

  “Let’s not tell the other guys what I just told you. I couldn’t stand to have them rag on me again.”

  25.

  changing course

  Dad ripped off his necktie as soon as he parked the car. Then he came inside and changed into his painting clothes.

  “Nothing,” he said as he cut through the house toward his studio. “Not one word.”

  “What’s wrong?” Linda asked, following him into the kitchen. She wore a geriatric golf shirt and skirt. Jodie trailed behind, a purple plastic barrette hanging on a lank piece of hair in front of her eyes. As she trotted along, she swatted it back against the freckles on her cheek.

  “I want my paintings to be seen, but no one’s giving me encouragement. I wrote to the Institute of Contemporary Art, the Peabody Essex, the Cape Ann, the galleries in the South End and on Newbury Street, and the Rocky Neck artist-in-residence program. I even e-mailed some of my old classmates who have gallery connections. No one invited me to submit work. Sure, I can fill out applications and send slides. But mostly the galleries already know which artists they want, and go after them. And I don’t have time to wait around.”

  “People are stupid, aren’t they, Mr. Morrison?” Jodie asked.

  “Not stupid, exactly,” Dad said. He chewed on his lip before speaking again. “They just can’t recognize something good if it’s not like a hundred things they haven’t seen before.”

  “That’s really frustrating, Mr. Morrison,” Jodie said.

  Mom was flipping through the mail and checking the answering machine. “Oh well, honey,” she said. “If you’re going to keep pushing the envelope, you have to expect a paper cut.”

  “Cute,” Dad said. He folded his arms over his chest. He looked furled, like an umbrella.

  I had just started researching the history of the Hohner Special 20 harmonica. I dropped my work and went into the studio, where Dad’s finished and half-finished paintings were turned toward the wall. I hoped I could say something to make him relax. To unfurl him.

  “I’m doing my homework,” I said. “I just want you to know that.”

  “I’m glad,” he said. He didn’t look glad. He pressed a fist into his mouth and chewed his lip harder.

  I stretched up and rested a hand on the molding above the doorway. “Answer a question for me,” I said. “Are you having a good time with your painting?”

  “Up till now I was. Until the world conspired to teach me that art is unnecessary.”

  “See what’s happening? One little disappointment and you’re not enjoying it anymore. That’s what I was worried about. I wish you would be happy that you have something you enjoy doing and not worry about status and recognition. Live in the moment. No success, no failure.” I let go of the molding and sort of fell into his room, but gracefully, like a trapeze artist.

  “That’s not good enough, though,” Dad said. “I want more. I always thought . . .”

  “Yes?” I asked, using my Listeners techniques.

  Dad’s body softened. With one hand he picked through the brushes on the table, lifting and dropping them like they were so much kindling.

  “I thought I was going to have a big life. Be different from other people. You and Linda and your mom are great, but—”

  I balked at this, but I talked myself through it: It’s not up to you to judge. You’re living on the Dad Planet now.

  “You wanted to be different,” I echoed.

  Dad nodded to himself. He had made some kind of decision. “I’m going to have the big life,” he said. “I’ll make the opportunities for myself if no one will make them for me.”

  26.

  last winter: red all over

  Dad’s first antidepressant has given him what Dad’s psychiatrist, Dr. Gupta, calls an “atypical dermatological reaction.” That means that Dad is covered with blisters—red lumps that merge to make ridges, with yellow pus forming streams in between. Some of the blisters look like numbers or letters: D or 8. He keeps discovering more, and Linda and I pantomime gagging every time his back is turned. Mom tells him not to look at his skin and to keep his sleeves rolled down. Soon the rash disturbs him more than anything else that is wrong. We cover up all the mirrors.

  27.

  shift 2, november 8

  Margaret and Richie were both on calls. Margaret smiled and nodded even though the Incoming couldn’t see her. Funny how the visual signals humans developed face-to-face persisted when we were separated.

  She asked her caller something about a fiancé in Iraq. A gold cross sparkled against Margaret’s plaid uniform. She zinged the cross from side to side on its chain while she talked. Mom often did something like that too. She touched her necklace when she was nervous, as if it held magical powers. Richie’s arm partly blocked my view and my hearing, but I heard him say “amputation” and “prosthesis.” I had to give him props: He could handle more than I thought.

  I waited in pregame mode, thinking about that last conversation with Dad. What had he been trying to tell me?

  I thought I was going to have a big life. Be different from other people. You and Linda and your mom are great, but—

  What would he have said if I hadn’t interrupted him?

  I’m going to have the big life. I’ll make the opportunities.

  Maybe he’d been about to ask for my help: I’ll make the opportunities. And I want the three of you to be part of it. Or maybe he was saying we were in his way. Maybe he was saying he was going to leave us.

  I knew what he meant by a “big life.” He and Mom and Linda and even Jodie were great, but they weren’t enough for me, either. When I became a psychologist, I wanted a big life too.

  Line 3 rang, and I rested my hand on the receiver for a second before answering. The heck with my CFM. I wasn’t doing this for him. I was doing it for me.

  28.

  call 1

  Listeners. Can I help you?”

  I don’t feel safe.

  “Why are you not feeling safe, ma’am?”

  You better whisper. They’ll hear us.

  “Who’ll hear us?”

  The CIA.

  “The CIA is bugging your phone?”

  Richie glanced over and nodded. He’d had this Incoming before.

  No, my bathtub.

  “That sounds really upsetting. My name is Billy. Would you like to tell me your first name?”

  Debra. Last week I couldn’t take a bath because they were in there.

  “And you say this started a week ago?”

  Approximately.

  “How did they get in?”

  Through the water pipes.

  “You sound pretty calm about what’s going on.”

  Oh, well. That’s life. Can’t fight City Hall, right?

  “You’re a very brave person, Debra.” I stretched the cord and twirled it around my finge
r.

  What else can I do? I have to live with it.

  “Do you have any idea why the CIA would do this to you?”

  Am I being recorded?

  “Absolutely not. This line is confidential.”

  I’ll tell you, then: Because my parents were spies.

  “How did you find out?”

  When they died I found a book about Cuba. Something inside the cover was erased.

  “That must have been a shock.”

  No one knows but the CIA. I barely talk to my neighbors.

  “It must be hard to trust people when you have a secret like that.”

  I asked Debra, since she rarely left the house, if she was buying food, if she was eating okay. I tried to focus on Debra’s well-being. It wasn’t my job to separate fact from fiction. I could let go and surf on the untruth of everything she said.

  29.

  calls 2–4

  After Debra, I got two nearly identical calls from teenagers who had been dumped, and one from an elderly man who seemed to be drunk.

  It’s my birthday, he kept saying.

  “Happy birthday,” I said three times.

  He asked me to sing, but I didn’t. With hardly a bobble, I made all three Incomings feel a little better. None was suicidal.

  30.

  call 12

  Listeners. Can I help you?”

  It’s me. I’m having a really bad night.

  Jenney. I remembered her, but I couldn’t say so.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Do you want to tell me your first name?”

  You don’t know who I am?

  “No, I don’t. My name’s Billy. Would you like to tell me your name?”

  It’s Jenney. Don’t you remember? We talked a few nights ago.