We Are Not Ourselves

by Matthew Thomas

  His father began to clap and cheer in the middle of a movement, and Connell clapped along, which reminded him of sitting next to his father in Carnegie Hall as a kid, when he would watch for his father’s hands to come together with authority to know when he himself should clap.

  At the end of one movement—a check of the liner notes revealed the symphony to be Mozart’s fortieth—his father smiled deliriously and then started sobbing deeply enough that it was impossible to hear the music. Connell couldn’t tell if it was the symphony making him react so strongly or else something bubbling up from his unconscious mind. He began to get unaccountably angry. Rather than let that feeling come to the fore and allow the visit to turn ugly, he wheeled his father out to the television room and left, this time for good.

  92

  For weeks, she had seen the end coming. His color was ashen, his breath sulfuric. His gaze was vacant, without any bouts of clarity. His head was stuck in a permanent loll, as if the muscles in his neck had stopped working. The clonic twitches almost flung him out of his seat.

  A month before he died, he did something that she turned over in her mind later whenever she wondered how much he was aware of in his last days. He often exhibited what looked like glimmers of awareness, but she knew they were more likely her own projections. It was less painful to believe he couldn’t remember all he’d lost, but another part of her—she knew it was selfish—wanted him to know who she was.

  A few days before Valentine’s Day, she was wheeling him down the hall to his room. The home was decorated with pink streamers and heart-shaped cardboard cutouts, as though it were not a facilitator of human expirations but a middle school full of yearning adolescents. She had to walk close to the wall to avoid someone being wheeled in the other direction, and in that instant, Ed had reached out to one of the hearts on the wall and plucked it off. Reached was too strong a word; likely it brushed against him and his hand closed around it reflexively. He clutched it the whole way down the hall and into the room. It was only when she wheeled him into place and sat beside him that he dropped it and it fell on the floor between them. His hand twitched after it; he could almost have been pointing. She picked it up. She was on the verge of asking if it was for her when she realized she didn’t want to hear the lack of an answer, so she just placed it on the nightstand.

  Glue pooled in the corners of his mouth and a pasty spackle of plaque sat on his teeth, which could no longer be cleaned effectively and which had darkened so considerably that they had gone past yellow to a necrotic shade of blue.

  She wet a paper towel and wiped his face. “Happy Valentine’s Day,” she said, and when she kissed him on the mouth for the first time in longer than she liked to remember, she was surprised at how sweet he tasted.

  93

  Something in his mother’s message compelled him to return her call right away and not merely resolve to do so before the weekend was over. She would never have delivered bad news on an answering machine, but there must have been a hint, a subtle quaver, and a hint was all he needed. For years, he had been tuned to the peculiar frequency of disaster. It was irrational, he knew; his father’s disease augured no sudden change in fortune, only a long decline; nevertheless, whenever the phone rang in his sleep, he awoke with a start and sprang to his feet.

  “Your father is sick,” she said when he reached her.

  He looked around at his apartment. Papers were strewn everywhere; a thick layer of dust had settled on every surface. Neither he nor his roommate had done any cleaning in weeks. It was their last stretch in college, and each of them was responsible for wringing as much as he could out of the dwindling days. He considered the smells: the faint ammonia reek of dirty clothes, the mildew musk that drifted out from dishes in the murky sink, which only got washed when his roommate’s girlfriend complained.

  “He’s not going to make it through the night,” his mother said, with none of the bluster that entered her voice when she knew she was right. She sounded vulnerable. It might have been the first time he’d ever heard her sound that way.

  “Are you sure?” he asked, but it was an idle question; she’d watched hundreds of people die.

  “He has pneumonia,” she said calmly. “That’s bad for someone in his situation.”

  “Why didn’t you call sooner?”

  “I was waiting to see if he’d make it through. I didn’t want to pull you away unnecessarily. Anyway, I’m calling now.”

  “How is he?” It was a dumb question, but he hoped, even half expected, that his mother’s answer would be different this time—modulated, hedging.

  “Everything’s quiet,” she said. “I’m by the bed. I’m trying to make him comfortable.”

  He could see the nursing home shrouded in darkness, the hallway dark but for the sliver of light shining out under his father’s door. He could see his mother’s hand on his father’s chest, the labored breathing, the terror in his father’s eyes.

  “We’ll have to hope he lasts until you get here,” she said. “Call JetBlue. Put it on the American Express.”

  He didn’t have a credit card of his own. His mother had given him the Amex the day he left for college. It listed his name in full caps, CONNELL J. LEARY, and above it, Member Since 67. “In case of emergencies,” she’d said as she handed it over before she headed to work that morning. The very last thing she’d said, as always, was “Be careful.”

  • • •

  It was with a sense of ceremony that he packed for his trip. The nervous excitement that attended any travel filled his chest, but he was preparing for a greater journey. They said that a father’s death was a defining moment in a man’s life, perhaps the defining one. He was about to be ushered into an immense and silent club of men who shared the knowledge of one of life’s singular passages. He was humbled by the possibility of waking up a different person, one with the stamp of legitimacy on him. Every shirt he folded into the bag, every pair of socks he picked out from the rest, he envisioned outfitting the better self that was, perhaps, being born into the world. A solemn suit, sensible slacks, his best shoes: the destiny for which he had been preparing was coming into focus. There were matters to attend to: taking out the trash, washing the dishes in the sink. He dispatched them with an intensity he had never been able to summon before. They were the precursor to the larger duties he was about to perform, as son to his mother and ambassador for his family—in short, as the man of the house. Every move he made had the imprimatur of purposefulness. There was no time for sentiment, only for the handling of tasks that a man ought to do well and uncomplainingly.

  He stood in the doorway for a moment, looking out, for perhaps the last time with eyes of an adolescent, at the view of the street from his place. He breathed deeply the evening air, the smell of trees and car exhaust. His apartment seemed suddenly quaint; he felt a tremendous affection for the life he had been leading. He would leave it all behind. He would begin anew. Nothing could stop him; nothing could hurt him; he could walk on coals and get to the cool other side.

  Before he left, he called again. “How is he?” he asked, because he couldn’t ask the obvious: Is he alive?

  “He’s in pain,” she said, “but he’s still here.” Her voice broke. “I told him you were coming. He squeezed my finger.”

  At Midway, he checked in, passed through the detectors, and took a seat at the gate. There wouldn’t be much of a wait; he had arrived shortly before departure. He settled in and tried to read a book, but he was seized by panic at the thought of his father dying. He had been living without his father for some time already, but he still made pilgrimages to him, for the advice he listened for in his father’s heartbeats, ear pressed to his chest; for the reassurance in his constancy; for the comfort he felt when he nuzzled him close and registered the soft, unconscious rhythm of his breath on his neck. He was still the standard-bearer; he was still his father.

  They started boarding the plane. The back rows, his group, boarded first. He felt like a horse
stomping at the gate, ready to dash off the plane when it landed. He hadn’t checked any bags; his uncle Pat would be waiting for him at the airport.

  He was the first to his row. He put his book into the seat pocket, lowered the tray table, and drummed his fingers. Stragglers filed in slowly. Soon he would have to get up for the person in the window seat, or watch the one in the aisle stuff his things into the overhead bin. He wished he hadn’t rushed aboard. He didn’t need to use the bathroom, but he replaced the table and rose anyway.

  He pressed close to the mirror, leaned his forehead against it. His breath collected on it. He would stay there as long as he needed to. He was looking for something, some confirmation, though of what he wasn’t sure.

  Then he saw it. It was all there: his father’s aspect of perpetual surprise; his father’s widow’s peak, which seemed to climb his scalp in flight; his father’s nose, which flared out slightly at the nostrils; his father’s jaw, which gave ballast to the rest; the cavity in his father’s chin; the black hair; the slightly overlarge ears.

  He bared his teeth. They were, against all odds, perfectly straight. As a kid he had avoided the nighttime headgear designed to supplement the corrective pull of his braces. He had faked the log that documented his wear time. At the panic-stricken last minute before heading to the orthodontist, overwhelmed by the enormity of so much squandered time, he had switched pens and varied the numbers, composing fictions that attested to his discipline and endurance. His father drove him to the orthodontist once a month for two full years; every time, Connell waited to hear the guilty verdict; every time, he was spared. His father never called him on it either; he was happy enough to take him for a ride, happy enough to shell out bucks he didn’t have for the sake of his son’s smile. The world of adults seemed to budget for the carelessness of children.

  His teeth were not his father’s. His father had a bridge that he washed under the faucet and click-clacked for Connell when he asked him to. He had a cracked front tooth that he lost half of when he fell to the brick floor in the kitchen while Connell brooded in his room.

  “You are flying home,” he said to the mirror, hoping to ground himself in the reality of what was happening. “Your father is dying. He is your best friend. You will never be the same again.”

  It didn’t work. By the time he got back to his seat, he had forgotten what he had felt in the bathroom. An attractive woman around his age or a few years older had taken the window seat. In the aisle sat an older businessman who couldn’t be bothered to flirt with her. Connell squeezed past him, insisting that he needn’t get up, and the man didn’t flinch.

  As they waited for takeoff, Connell looked at the tiny television on the seat back, which showed a map with their location, the plane icon as big as a state. It looked as if it could cover the distance in a quick sprint, but it just sat there.

  “I’ve heard that’s good.” He gestured to the book in the girl’s hands.

  “Oh, it is,” she said. “It’s beautifully written. I’ve liked everything I’ve read by her.”

  “What brings you to New York?”

  She seemed startled by the sudden shift, but he hadn’t read the book or any of the author’s others. “I’m going to see a friend,” she said. “My college roommate. She moved there to work for a fashion house.”

  “My name’s Connell.” He jammed his elbow awkwardly against the seat as he tried to extend his hand.

  “Karla,” she said. “Nice to meet you.”

  He thought he heard the businessman sigh.

  “Have you ever been to New York?”

  “I haven’t. I’m excited.”

  “How long will you stay?”

  “A week.”

  “What do you have planned?”

  “Not much,” she said. “I don’t even have a guidebook yet. All I know is I’m staying with my friend. I’m so busy, I haven’t had time to sit down and plan anything.”

  “Make sure you ride the Staten Island Ferry. It’s the best view of the city, and it costs only fifty cents.”

  The businessman coughed. “It’s free now,” he said.

  “Sorry?”

  “It was fifty cents. It’s free now.”

  He resumed making notes on his stack of papers, but not before giving a look that said he knew what Connell was up to, that Connell had been away too long, that he was a fraud, that he was going to lead this girl astray.

  “That sounds great, either way,” Karla said. “I love boats. And bargains.”

  Connell and Karla looked at each other for a second. Her smile was charming, open. Then she resumed her reading and he took his book out of the seat pocket. After a while she asked whether New York was home, and he said it used to be, and she asked why he was going there and he told her his father might be dying after a long illness and she said she was very sorry. The revelation seemed to sink them deeper into silence, and part of him wished he had made something up. The plane took off with a rumble. He noticed she made the sign of the cross and pressed her hands together, kissing her fingertips lightly.

  • • •

  Near the end of the flight he asked if she liked Indian food.

  “You know?” she said. “I don’t think I’ve ever had it.”

  “There are these two adjacent Indian restaurants,” he said, “at the top of this stoop on Second Avenue, off Third Street. They’re identical: the same décor, the same hanging lights. Strings of plastic chili peppers. They’ve been warring for years. A host stands outside each door, trying to usher you in like it’s Shangri-La on the other side of that door. You make your choice: right or left. Then you’re part of that tribe. They remember you. God forbid you go the other way the next time.”

  “Which way do you go?”

  “Right,” he said.

  “Then how do you know they’re identical?”

  “I never thought about that,” he said. “I guess I’ve been too scared to find out. You don’t know how intimidating those guys are.”

  She laughed; he could feel interest stirring in her. For most of the flight, he had waited for that moment when the dynamic between them would change, when she would cease being a stranger. Maybe this was his chance.

  “Maybe we should go while you’re in town,” he said. “We can go left, if you want. I’m willing to risk it.”

  “I’m not one to tamper with loyalties,” she said, and she shifted in her seat. He feared he had spoken too soon. It could get uncomfortable; they still had a little ride ahead of them.

  “You’re right,” he said. “Better safe than sorry.”

  “Are you sure you have time? I mean—your father.”

  “I can make time,” he said.

  “You don’t have to worry about me,” she said. “I’ll have enough to keep me busy. You’ve got things to take care of.”

  “It’ll be fine,” he said. “I’ll be able to slip away. Besides, he’s probably going to be fine. This has happened before.”

  “Well,” she said, “only if it’s not a disturbance.”

  “I’ll give you a call to set something up.”

  They exchanged numbers. There was a hint of bafflement on her face. She seemed shocked by him, the way one is shocked and refreshed by diving into unexpectedly cold water. The way she searched his look for an extended moment, as if to ask whether he were sure he wanted to entertain her with so much else going on that was far more important, cemented his belief that he had impressed her as a man delightfully open to suggestion, with an imagination large enough to find time, even in the depths of despair, for the important things in life, those accidents without which our existence was little more than a schedule of dry routines.

  They landed and filed off the plane. She had to retrieve her things from the overhead bin, and a few passengers shot between Connell and her. He waited at the mouth of the corridor, averting his gaze from the other passengers, embarrassed at the thought they could see what he was up to. It felt important to walk with her to baggage cl
aim. She was about to greet the rest of the city; he would become merely the first in a line of men she encountered in her travels. Whatever primacy he held was about to yield to the manifestly transient quality of their acquaintanceship. He could easily be forgotten. These last few hundred meters would make a difference in ensuring that that didn’t happen.

  As they snaked their way through the terminal, he made some dry observations about New York that got her laughing. He was riding a wave of euphoria. His bag felt like nothing on his shoulders. She seemed to be taking quick steps to keep up with his longer stride. He was filled with a sense of possibility: this might be the prelude to something they could continue in the city they had just left. It was the first day of his trip; there was no way of knowing what was to come. And there was this woman striding along beside him, bursting with expectation. To an onlooker he could have been her boyfriend, visiting the city for the first time himself.

  They were almost running when they hit the corridor that opened onto the baggage claim area. He was turning to look at her the whole time. As they headed down he remembered why he was there and looked for his uncle Pat through the frosty glass. He couldn’t yet distinguish any faces.

  The revolving doors loomed at the bottom of the downward slope, and anxiety began to creep into him. He found himself slowing his pace and flattening his smile. He was looking less at Karla and more toward the revolving doors beyond which waited his uncle Pat. And then he was really slowing down, enough that Karla asked what was wrong. He could make out the faint image of his uncle and his mother through the glass. The fact that his mother was there could only mean one thing. He was drifting slowly away from Karla and not answering. He didn’t want his mother to see him talking to her, to see him as the frivolous fool he suddenly knew he was. Soon Karla had stopped addressing him and walked on, and he walked several paces behind her, knowing what he had seen through the glass but not admitting it fully to himself until he got right up to it and could not avoid any longer the sight of tears streaming down his mother’s face. That was when he knew that his father had died while he had forgotten him entirely.