Forever . . .

by Judy Blume

  When Erica heard about my parents and the summer job in New Hampshire she canceled her plans to spend the weekend at the beach with her family and asked me over instead. I thanked her for understanding and she said, “That’s what friends are for . . . remember?”

  “Why don’t you invite her to stay with us instead?” Mom asked when I said I was going to keep Erica company while her parents were away.

  “No . . . I’d rather go there.”

  On Saturday night Michael and Artie came over to Erica’s for supper. We fixed hotdogs and beans, a whole package of spinach for Michael and a grilled cheese sandwich for me. Erica’s dog, Rex, sat under the table and she fed him scraps from her plate. Both of us were careful not to bring up the subject of summer. Artie was in one of his high moods, entertaining us with family stories until I brought out the cupcake with the candle on it and set it down in front of Michael. I sang “Happy Birthday,” even though his birthday isn’t until next Thursday. He was surprised and pleased and made me help him blow out his candle, at which point Artie grew very somber. “Eighteen years . . .” he said. “A quarter of our lives gone by . . . over . . . kaput . . . just like that . . .” He snapped his fingers. “From now on it’s all downhill . . .”

  “No, it’s not,” I said, “it’s just the beginning . . . the best part is still coming . . .”

  Artie said, “Sure . . . you spend your whole life trying to make it and for what . . . so you can wind up in some cancer ward full of needles and tubes with nobody giving a shit . . . that’s what you’ve got to look forward to . . . that’s what we’ve all got coming . . .”

  Erica touched his arm. “You’ve got to enjoy whatever you can and forget about the rest.”

  “The odds are stacked against us . . .”

  “Please, Artie . . .” I said, “don’t spoil tonight.”

  “Hell, I’m not about to spoil it.”

  “Good.” Erica jumped up to clear away the plates. “How about a game of dirty word Scrabble?”

  “Sounds good to me,” Michael said.

  “Why not?” Artie asked. “Let’s enjoy it while we can.”

  He snapped out of his glum mood and we had a fun game, then Michael and I went to the guest room and Erica and Artie headed upstairs, with Rex following them.

  Michael took a long time getting me ready, or else it just seemed that way, and it worked out very well. We don’t turn out all the lights anymore. It’s much nicer being able to see as you make love. After, while we rested, I tried to think of how to tell him about the summer. Finally I decided there was no easy way and I said, “Michael . . . there’s something I’ve got to tell you.”

  “Umm . . .” he said, playing with my hair.

  “Are you listening?”

  “Umm . . .” His eyes were still closed.

  “It’s about the summer . . .” I waited for some reaction from him. “You see . . . my parents . . . they arranged . . .” I sat up. “Oh God . . . I don’t know how to tell you this . . .”

  He opened his eyes and sat up too. “Just say it, Kath. Whatever it is . . . just say it.”

  “I’ve got to go to New Hampshire for seven weeks . . . my father got me this job at Jamie’s camp . . . they needed an assistant tennis counselor . . . I said no . . . I told them to forget it . . . but they said I have no choice . . . they’re making me go, Michael . . . but I figure you could drive up at least once, maybe twice, because I’m sure I’ll get some time off . . . and . . .” I looked over at him. “I know what you’re thinking,” I said, “that I’m eighteen . . . that I should be more independent . . . I should have asserted myself . . . but, I don’t know . . .” I stopped for a minute. “Say something, will you . . .”

  “I’ve got a job too . . . in North Carolina.”

  “Oh, come on . . .”

  “It’s true. My uncle’s got a lumber yard there and he’s offered me a job for the summer . . . good pay and no expenses. I’ll be staying with them.”

  He was serious. He was actually going to North Carolina. “How long have you known?”

  “About three weeks.”

  I took a deep breath. “When were you going to tell me?”

  “Tonight.”

  “Oh, sure . . .”

  “I was . . .”

  “You expect me to believe that?”

  “It’s the truth.”

  “I’ll bet . . .”

  “Look . . . I didn’t want to tell you before because I kept hoping something else would turn up . . . some great job around here . . . and besides, I didn’t want to think about facing the summer without you . . . if you don’t believe me you can ask Artie . . . he knew I was going to tell you tonight . . .”

  “You shouldn’t have waited . . . that wasn’t honest.”

  “Okay . . . so maybe I was wrong . . . I’m sorry if I was . . .”

  “Whose idea was it . . . going to North Carolina?”

  “Whose do you think?”

  “Your parents?”

  “You guessed it.”

  “Same here.”

  “So they’ll find out that separating us won’t change anything . . . and then maybe they’ll leave us alone.”

  I nodded.

  “Come here, Kath . . .”

  I leaned over and kissed him. “We still have all of June,” I said.

  “I know . . . and we’re going to make the most of it.”

  “Starting now?” I asked, kissing him again.

  “Starting now . . .”

  But Ralph wouldn’t get hard. Even when I held him nothing happened.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I don’t know!” Michael turned away from me. “Shit . . . this is just what I need . . .”

  “Don’t worry,” I said, “. . . it’s probably nothing.” I ran my hands up and down his back. “Relax . . . it doesn’t matter.”

  He rolled over, but Ralph stayed small and soft. Michael pushed my hand away. “Cut it out, will you . . . can’t you see it’s not going to work again tonight.”

  “Okay . . .” I said, “let’s forget it.”

  We dressed side by side, not talking or laughing the way we usually do. I stripped the bed and put the sheets inside the pillow case.

  Erica and Artie were sitting in the living room, waiting for us.

  “You ready?” Michael asked Artie.

  “Yeah.”

  “Let’s get going then.”

  Erica just sat in the chair looking straight ahead. She and Artie didn’t say goodnight to each other.

  “I’ll call you,” Michael told me, without our usual goodnight kiss.

  “Okay,” I said. I walked him to the front door and when he and Artie were outside I saw Michael toss him the car keys. “I hope you don’t mind driving because I’ve got a headache that’s not to be believed.”

  “Take two aspirin,” I called, but he didn’t hear. I shut the door and went upstairs. Erica was on her bed, crying. “What is it?” I asked. I’d never seen her cry. Rex tried to lick her face.

  “Everything . . . I just can’t take it anymore.”

  “But Erica . . .”

  “I’ve given him almost five months of my life! And I can’t help him, Kath . . . it’s no use . . . tonight was the end . . . I’m not going to see him again.”

  “Come on . . .” I said. “You’re just upset. Everything will seem better in the morning.”

  That only made Erica cry harder. I found a tissue box and sat by her side.

  “He locked himself in my bathroom and threatened to kill himself and I was scared he meant it . . . I was so scared . . . so I ran downstairs to get you and Michael but just as I was about to knock I heard you . . .” she was sobbing harder and harder.

  “Please try to calm down, Erica . . . this isn’t doing you any good.”

  “And then,” she said, “when I got back to my room . . . there he was . . . sitting on the bed, all dressed, like nothing had happened and neither one of us said anything for t
he longest time and then I finally told him I don’t want to see him anymore. And he looked right at me and he said, I understand, Erica—you’ve been very kind and patient and I certainly don’t blame you . . . like he was acting a part in a play.”

  “You’ll both change your minds,” I said. “You’ll see.”

  “No . . . it’s over . . . don’t you understand . . . it’s over for good . . . and in a way I’m even glad.”

  19

  On Thursday morning, Michael’s birthday, Artie hung himself from the shower curtain rod in his bathroom. Luckily, the rod broke and he fell into the tub, winding up with a concussion and an assortment of cuts and bruises. He was stitched up at Overlook, then transferred to Carrier Clinic, a private psychiatric hospital near Princeton.

  Both Michael and Erica blamed themselves. Neither one of them believed me when I said that maybe this was the best thing that could have happened because now, at least, Artie will get the kind of professional help he’s needed all along.

  Michael said he should have listened on Saturday night, when Artie was driving home. “He wanted to talk . . . I knew it but I didn’t care . . . I was so wrapped up in my own problems I pretended to sleep all the way to my house. I wish I had it to do over again . . . I’d listen this time.”

  Erica was convinced it was all her fault. Wednesday afternoon, when she got home from school, Artie was parked out front, waiting for her. She told him that she’d meant what she’d said on Saturday night, and even though she still liked him as a person and always would, they were through and she didn’t want him coming around anymore. “I shouldn’t have ended it that way,” she said. “I should have waited . . .”

  We weren’t in the mood to celebrate but I gave Michael his birthday present anyway. On the card I wrote, To keep you warm next winter . . . until we can be together. And I signed it, Forever, Kath.

  “It’s perfect,” he said. “I’ll wear it every day.”

  The next night Michael and Erica got drunk. The three of us went to The Playground, this singles bar on Route 22. We flashed our new I.D. cards at the bartender and ordered a round of screwdrivers. But even with her I.D. the bartender refused to serve Erica until she’d shown him her driver’s license and her birth certificate, which she carries in her bag at all times.

  Michael and Erica belted their drinks down and ordered a second round while I sipped my first slowly, the way my father said I should. After that I stuck to ginger ale. In less than two hours Michael and Erica each polished off another three drinks and were acting really dumb, singing school songs and laughing hysterically. Finally, I threatened to walk out and drive home myself if they wouldn’t leave then and there.

  Getting them to the car was another story. Neither one of them could walk and if it hadn’t been for this very nice guy who offered to help we might still be there.

  Erica got sick first, in the parking lot. When she was done we got into the back seat of the car, where Michael was slumped in the corner. I thanked my friend and said goodbye. “Good luck,” he told me. I waved. A few miles down the highway Michael heaved all over Erica, but she was so out of it she didn’t even notice.

  I brought them back to my house since I didn’t know what else to do. My mother and father were very generous about helping them, because the truth is, they looked and smelled disgusting. Mom put Erica under the shower while Dad hosed off both Michael and his car. I made a pot of coffee.

  I’d been very cool to my parents since the camp scene, but watching them help my friends, knowing that they cared, made me glad I hadn’t done anything stupid.

  Dad called the Wagners and the Smalls and explained the situation to them. We got Michael to bed in the den and Erica to bed in my room. Then I went to the bathroom, sat down on the toilet, and cried.

  20

  June—the month most seniors live for—the end of one life and the beginning of another. I read that once, on the cover of a paperback. And in a way it’s true. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t caught up in the mood myself.

  Yesterday I did something I’ve never done before. I cut all my afternoon classes. Michael picked me up right after lunch. His mother and father had gone up to the Shakespeare Festival at Stratford. We spent the rest of the day in his bed. We had no trouble with Ralph this time and I could tell that Michael was relieved. So was I. Somehow I thought I might have been to blame . . .

  We didn’t go to Michael’s prom or mine. We’d talked about making one or the other, with Artie and Erica, but now it didn’t seem right. Artie’s parents told Michael there was no chance he’d be home for graduation. They asked him to write Artie short, cheerful notes, but not to expect any answers.

  Jamie baked a special cake for Mom’s fortieth birthday. We hid the layers in the downstairs freezer last week and defrosted them this morning, so they’d be ready to decorate when we got home from school. Jamie’s icing flowers are better than any bakery’s. We’d also chipped in for a big, beautiful plant that looks something like a palm tree. I drove down to the greenhouse to pick it up while Jamie put the finishing touches on the cake. I guess from now on I’ll feel uneasy about birthday celebrations but as I helped Jamie get ready for Mom’s party I tried to think of only happy things.

  Grandma and Grandpa sent forty yellow tea roses, enough to fill up every vase in our house, plus a check. We had a really nice dinner and Mom got tears in her eyes when Jamie and I carried in her cake, singing “Happy Birthday.” Then we gave her the plant. She loved it.

  Dad’s official present to her was a chunky silver bracelet she’d picked out in Mexico but he handed her a surprise package too—inside was a pink and orange bikini. She laughed when she saw it, kissed him, and told us it was great to be forty—that it sounded much worse than it felt. I wished Artie could have been there to see her.

  Later, Mom tried on her new bikini and modeled it for us. When she came to my room she said, “Tell the truth, Kath . . . are my thighs getting flabby?”

  I said, “No . . . of course not.”

  “Then what’s this?” she asked, squeezing some extra flesh.

  I didn’t come right out and say it was flab. I told her, “I can teach you some exercises to get rid of it.”

  “I may take you up on that,” she said. “And Kath . . . thank you for a lovely birthday.”

  “Any time,” I answered.

  The phone rang that night at 11:30. We never get calls that late because everyone knows my parents sack out early. I heard my father answer and say, “. . . just a minute . . . I’ll see . . .”

  He came to my door. “Are you awake?” he asked.

  “Half . . . who is it?”

  “Erica.”

  “At this hour?”

  “She says it’s important.”

  “Okay . . . I’ll take it downstairs.”

  I picked up the phone in the kitchen and yawned. “Hello . . .”

  “Sybil had a baby girl!”

  I came awake very fast. “She did . . . when?”

  “Tonight . . . her mother just called . . . six pounds, one ounce.”

  “But it’s only the middle of June.”

  “I know . . . she was two weeks early.”

  “Is she okay?”

  “Fine . . . so’s the baby.”

  “I’m glad.”

  “Me too . . . see you tomorrow.”

  Erica and I went to visit Sybil in the hospital. Instead of going directly to her room we stopped off at the nursery first. Babies are on view twice a day, during afternoon and evening visiting hours. You can watch them through the glass wall. Sybil’s baby had a headful of black hair and was fast asleep.

  “What do you think?” Erica asked.

  “She’s very small.”

  “They all are.”

  “Yeah . . . I guess so.”

  “Do you think she looks like Sybil?” Erica said.

  “I can’t tell . . . they’re not at their best until they’re a few months old.”

  “I know .
. . new ones look all shriveled up and distorted.”

  “I suppose if it’s yours, you feel different,” I said.

  “Do you think just having a baby automatically makes you love it?”

  “I’m not sure . . . you might have to learn to love it, like any other person.”

  We brought Sybil a bouquet of daisies. I arranged them in a disposable vase, the way I do when I’m working at the hospital. She was expecting us since Erica had phoned earlier to make sure she wanted company.

  “Hi . . .” she said, and before either one of us had a chance to say anything she began to talk. “I want you to know it was no big deal . . . those movies showing women screaming in labor are plain bullshit . . . there’s nothing to it . . . you just push and push and finally the baby pops out . . . to tell you the truth I don’t even remember that much about it except there was this very nice guy standing over me and every time a strong contraction started he gave me a whiff of gas . . . did you see her yet? Isn’t she adorable? Oh, thanks for the daisies . . . I love daisies . . . you know tonight’s my graduation . . . I really planned to be there . . . but you can’t fight Mother Nature . . . they’re going to mail me my diploma . . . did I tell you I’ve decided to take off fifty pounds and go to Smith?”

  She stopped to take a breath and Erica and I looked at each other.

  “I’m getting an IUD so I won’t get pregnant again because I’ve no intention of giving up sex . . . but the next time I have a baby I want to make sure I can keep it . . . did you see how much hair she has? My mother says it will probably all fall out and her regular hair will be completely different.” She sighed, then smiled at us. “Thanks for coming. I’m glad you did. Are you going to Michael’s graduation?” She directed this question to me.

  “Yes.”

  “Then you’ll hear them call my name.”

  “I’ll clap for you . . . okay?”

  “Sure . . . for me and Artie,” Sybil said. Then she looked up at Erica and shook her head. “I’m sorry.”

  “It’s okay.”

  “I’d rather be here than where he is,” Sybil said.

  “When are you coming home?” Erica asked.