Beauty

by Christina Chiu

  “I’ll see if my mom can stay with Alex a couple nights,” I say. “Jeff gets home by 7 Tuesdays and Fridays. That wouldn’t be too late for her.”

  “Yes!” he cheers. “And maybe another night you could let Alex take care of himself. He is 12, after all.”

  “I don’t know. What if he has a seizure?”

  “He hasn’t had one in a while, has he?”

  “Not since last year.”

  “See? He’s fine. You should stop worrying so much.”

  “Well, he does seem better,” I say. “I’ll talk with Jeff. We’ll figure something out.”

  “I knew you cared.” He buries his face at my shoulder.

  “Of course I do.”

  “I love you,” he says, in an almost child-like voice. “I’d do anything for you, you know that?”

  “Breathe,” I remind him.

  He shuts his eyes; he must be counting to ten.

  I can understand his frustration. Toby’s a smart boy; it’s true he should be doing a lot better academically than he is.

  “Ten,” he sighs, blinking his eyes open. He calls Toby to our room. “Why aren’t you doing all your homework?”

  “I do them. Most, anyway.”

  “Most? You think homework is optional?”

  “No.”

  “Then what’s this?” He holds the report card out for Toby to see.

  “A couple times I just forgot,” he explains.

  “And the others?”

  “I printed them out, but forgot to bring them to school.”

  “Oh, that’s why your stuff is always in the printer,” I say. “I thought you were making copies for your own records.”

  “No,” Toby replies, his hands digging deep into his jean pockets. “Just forgot.”

  “From now on, print everything the night before,” William says, “and double check everything’s packed before you go to bed.”

  “Uh, okay,” Toby says.

  “That went pretty well, don’t you think?” William says, once Toby’s left the room. He seems to have surprised himself.

  “I’m really proud of you,” I say.

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m a changed man,” he says.

  “You are changing. Keep up the good work.”

  “I can if you’re here with me. I’d do anything for you, you know that, right?”

  “You’ve got to do it for yourself.”

  “Yeah, right,” he says.

  For the spring break, William decides not to go away. Instead, we will do all the touristy things we’ve never had the chance to do in New York. We take the boys to the Cloisters, then stop at Arthur Avenue for dinner. We spend a day at The Brooklyn Museum and the Botanical Gardens next door. We pack a picnic and go boating on the lake in Central Park. The last day, we go to the Empire State Building. William’s made a reservation at Keens Steakhouse for dinner afterwards.

  We ride the elevator to the rooftop of the Empire State, which offers a panoramic view of the city. The boys point out the different attractions: “The Chrysler Building!” Toby calls.

  “Statue of Liberty!” Alex says. They elbow their way through the crowd to get a better view.

  “Boys,” I say, using my “be polite” voice. I feel strangely disappointed. When we were on the way up, the recording touted the unobstructed 360 degree view. While it’s true, it’s also not: the entire rooftop is fenced six-feet high, with barbed bars above it that extend another six feet and curve inward. As if that weren’t enough, there’s netting surrounding the entire building. These obstacles keep the crazies from jumping, the daredevils from rappelling off the sides of the building, and kids from chucking toys that would instantly kill the pedestrians on the ground. It makes sense and is necessary; but sad. In movies, this place is one of the most romantic spots in the world, but in real life, it’s like being in a cage with too many people.

  “Isn’t this incredible?” William asks, from behind.

  I take in the New York skyscape. The Financial District. One World Trade. The Brooklyn Bridge. “It’s breathtaking,”

  “I’m glad you think so,” William says, tugging my arm.

  I turn; he’s on a knee, a ring box bearing a gold band open in his hands. “Marry me.”

  The wind swoops over us. My hair whips into my face. I pull strands from my mouth and struggle to sweep the tangle from my eyes.

  “Marry me,” he says, again.

  Tourists clap. They have their phones out, videoing this moment they are witnessing on the Empire State Building.

  “I—” I stammer. “I—”

  “Don’t leave him hanging,” a guy shouts.

  “Amy Wong, you’re the best thing that ever happened to me,” William says. “I want to spend the rest of my life with you.”

  The crowd roars with excitement. They are witnessing something here in New York City that they will be able to talk about when they get home. This couple got engaged. “Say, ‘yes’,” a woman calls.

  “Oh my god, like, how romantic is this?” a teen exclaims.

  But it’s not romantic. Not even a little bit. Can’t they see that?

  “Don’t you want to?” William asks, getting to his feet now. “You love me, don’t you?”

  “Of course,” I say.

  “I don’t make you happy?”

  “Of course you do,” I say.

  “Then what is it?” he asks.

  I gaze at the faces around us. Mortified, I wish I could disappear. “Can we talk about this at home?” I ask.

  “It’s him, isn’t it?” he snaps. “Jeff!?”

  “Oh, William,” I say, shaking my head.

  “The ex-wife of the great Jeff Jones. You think I’m not good enough for you, is that it?”

  The crowd around us disperses, and yet I can sense them riveted, waiting to see what happens. You’ll never believe what happened… Then, from the corner of my eye, I see Alex and Toby appearing through the crowd.

  “Please, William?” My cheeks burn. “Let’s talk about this over dinner.”

  “Fuck dinner.” He snaps the box shut in my face. “Fuck this! Fuck you for doing this.”

  He storms to the elevator, muscles people out of his way, and gets inside. I watch, the boys behind me, as the doors roll shut.

  “So stupid,” Ma says, when I tell her William proposed and I said no. I stopped by their apartment because Alex has an occupational therapy session at the hospital across the street. He’s at a stage when he doesn’t want Mommy to be hovering all the time. It’s the third time in a year that William has brought up marriage. We have been fighting about it almost constantly. “You live with a man, you should at least have health insurance,” Ma says.

  “Marriage is not a job.” I pause. “Okay, well, maybe it is, but I’m just fine.”

  “Forty-five you are,” Ma says.

  “Forty’s the new thirty,” I say. “I’m strong, healthy, and haven’t had so much as a cold in years.”

  “Linda’s daughter—“

  “Who’s Linda?”

  “Oh, you don’t know her.”

  Bet I’m gonna know her now, I think.

  “Her daughter got the breast cancer,” Ma says. “She’s forty. Younger than you.”

  “I’m not getting cancer.”

  “You know this? You are God now, ah?”

  “I’m not God.” I’d like to bang my head against the fucking wall. “All I’m trying to say is I’m fine.”

  “So shame, such pretty girl. The chemo makes all her hair fall out.” For emphasis, Ma plucks imaginary tufts of hair from her scalp.

  I shudder.

  “A whole year she’s in the hospital,” Ma says.

  “I get it, okay? I hear your point.”r />
  “You hear what?” she utters. “She’s die.”

  Defeated, I finally say, “I just don’t think it’s a good reason to marry someone, okay?”

  “Not good reason or best reason?” Ma says. “You tell me what is so good—love?”

  “I know that’s hard for you, but, yes, love.”

  “You love Jeff, what is that getting you?”

  “Loved, Ma. Past tense.”

  “What so difference? In the end, what do you have?” She sniffs. “Nothing.”

  Please, God, I think. Don’t say it.

  “You give to him the prenup,” she says.

  Banging my head open would make this stop, anyway. “I was young,” I say.

  “Young?” she says. “Or stupid.”

  “Will you leave her alone?” Georgie tells Ma, shuffling out of her room in robe and slippers. Must you two bicker so early in the morning?” It’s 11 AM; during her days off, she typically sleeps until mid-afternoon.

  “Who’s bicker?” Ma says. “I’m just saying.”

  “That’s the problem,” I growl. “You’re always ‘saying.’ For once in your life, can’t you stop meddling in other people’s lives? Don’t you ever learn?” I’m referring to Georgie—the catastrophic destruction of the only romantic relationship she’s ever had. Instantly, I’m sorry; Georgie squints, a reaction that betrays her impervious facade. Even Be-a-Robot Georgie has that dreaded thing called a heart. It’s been twenty years since Marc. Since then, she’s been too busy doctoring to date; it’s her only form of defiance.

  “You don’t love William, why you live with him?” Ma asks.

  “I don’t know,” I say, “maybe because you won’t let me move back in with you?”

  “I’m going back to bed,” Georgie utters, retreating to her room.

  “Why would a grown daughter want to live with her Ma?” Ma says.

  “Georgie lives with you.”

  “Georgie takes care of mommy. You want to take care of mommy? You can’t even take care of yourself, your own son.”

  “I knew you were going to say that. You always have to get that in, don’t you?”

  “What Americans like to say? If the shoe fits?”

  A week later, I feel a sharp pain in my left breast. It happens sometimes the days before menstruation. Some women in their 40s go through menopause, but my menstrual cycles are still going strong. Except, three days pass—still, nothing. There’s nothing to worry about, I know there’s nothing to worry about, and yet, my conversation with Ma plays like a loop inside my head. What if I am sick? As annoying as Ma can be, she’s right. What exactly would I do? Are the uninsured in this country expected to roll over and accept a death sentence? I’ve been healthy since the divorce. I never worried about healthcare. But I need to be more careful, take better care of myself.

  The next couple of days drag out. The pain in my breast comes and goes. Whenever it happens, I grow more convinced that something’s wrong, and yet, as soon as it stops, I laugh it off as nothing but paranoia. I consider making an appointment with the gynecologist, but when I call, I find out that without health insurance, the doctor’s fee is around $200. God only knows how much a mammogram would cost. It’s a lot of money to drop if it turns out to be a false alarm.

  “What’s wrong?” William asks, noticing me cringe during a moment of phantom pain.

  “Nothing,” I say, because the last thing I need is for health care to tip the balance.

  “Why’s marriage so important to you?” I ask.

  “Just is.”

  “It’s just a piece of paper.”

  “It’s more than that and you know it,” he says. “A marriage license validates a union between two people.”

  “I guess I don’t really believe in it. I’ve been there and done that and it’s not for me.”

  “Been there and done that,” he mimics. “Can you hear yourself? We’re not talking about backpacking through Europe, Amy.”

  “I don’t know what you want me to say.”

  He looks me in the eye. We both know exactly what he wants, and yet, I can’t bring myself to give it to him. Am I just being stubborn? Selfish?

  “Look, William. I loved Jeff—“

  “Love.”

  Why does everyone keep saying that?

  “I was in my twenties. None of the men I was involved with were anything like him.”

  “You mean, plebes like me, right?”

  Yes.

  “No. He swept me off my feet, you know? It was all pretty overwhelming and confusing, but, yes, I did love him and I think he loved me, too, but—”

  “He’s such an arrogant prick.”

  “Maybe, but he was my arrogant prick.”

  “You can say that after the way he’s treated you?”

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Jeff and I were good, William. We were having fun. It was up and down and all over the place. A fucked up kind of happy.”

  “Happy?”

  “Until we got married.”

  “Funny how he’s a good guy now.”

  “Jeff is Jeff,” I say. “But, yes, he’s changed a lot and I’m proud of him.”

  “I’ve changed a lot. Or haven’t you noticed?” He sets his beer down, the force of it causing it to splash onto the table. “But I get it. It’s not like I’m rich and famous.”

  “William, don’t.”

  “God knows, I’m no Jeff Jones.”

  “Please don’t drag Jeff into this again.”

  “Why not? You’re still in love with him, aren’t you?”

  “Oh, my God, stop it.”

  “You’ll go back to him,” he says. “I know it. I saw how you looked at him when he came to get Alex.”

  “Can we please stop? We’re going in circles. If I wanted so badly to be there with him, I would be. He’s told me I’m welcome to stay if I ever need…”

  “Oh?” Red splotches creep up William’s neck to his face. “When did you talk about it?”

  “He’s always said that,” I lie.

  “I’m not stupid,” he says, spit spraying me in the face. “You think I didn’t realize you moved Alex out of here after that night? To what—protect him from me? Like I’m some kind of monster?”

  I’m not sure what to say. Is that why I moved Alex to Jeff’s? It is, isn’t it? “No,” I say. “I told you. Rushing to the city every morning and then schlepping back after his therapies was too much for him.”

  “You expect me to believe that? He’d been staying here for months. Then all of a sudden, he can’t take it any more?”

  “We were trying to make it work, but he was getting nauseated and sick. He wasn’t making the progress he needed to be making. It just wasn’t fair to him.”

  “And what about me?” He starts the breathing. In—two, three, four; Out—two, three, four… “During the week I hardly see you anymore.”

  “It won’t always be this way.” I hope.

  “All I want is a family with you. Is that so bad?”

  No, I realize. Jeff never cared about family until he nearly lost it. William actually wants one, with me, and yet, I have no faith to go through with it. Why? I think about Jeff, how much we’ve gone through and grown, and the truth is we are finally getting to be friends. People can change. Relationships can change. So why do I keep William at arm’s distance? What matters is that he’s trying. That counts for something, doesn’t it?

  “Fine,” I say. “Let’s just do it.”

  He looks at me, his eyes dull, and then it’s like the experiment I used to do with the boys when they were little: a drop of dish soap in a bowl of oil-saturated water forces the oil out to the sides; suddenly there’s clarity.

  “Really?” he asks.

  I smile.

  “Yes!” His
face brightens. He pumps a fist. “We’re getting married!”

  “Just no reception,” I say. With Jeff, I had the perfect fairytale wedding. But it proved to be nothing more than an elaborate lie. “Something simple.”

  “Town hall?”

  “Can we do it in the city? On Wednesday, Alex’s PT appointment is in the Financial District. We could walk over afterward.”

  “City Hall it is,” William says.

  “Just you, me, and the boys.”

  “What about your mom or sister?”

  “Hell, no.”

  “But we’ll need a witness.”

  “I’ll ask Ben.”

  “You won’t regret this, baby,” he says, racing to our bedroom and returning a minute later with the ring. “From this day on, we belong to each other. I’m all yours and you’re all mine.”

  The band fits, but with the spike in humidity, it feels too snug.

  The City Clerk’s Office is essentially a massive, albeit well-designed, waiting room. It was commissioned by Mayor Bloomberg in 2008. The fact that it has stood the test of time speaks to the incredible talent of the interior decorator, Jamie Drake. Ben likes the pastel accents and drooping chandeliers. I love it all, even the display of bouquets. Often, arrangements are a mix of different flowers. Here, each species is celebrated apart from the others. There are the typical pink roses and blush, but also simple handfuls of daffodils, Picasso lilies, hydrangea, and even a lovely arrangement of bunched white carnations, a flower I usually despise.

  There are forty-three couples ahead of us in the queue. The hall has the feel of the subway; always crowded, and with people constantly coming and going. Each ceremony takes only a few minutes, so we find ourselves in the east chapel within an hour. The sofa and walls are apricot and peach. There’s an abstract painting at the front of the room. Indigo blue background. A petite yellow flower here, a cluster of pale blue and lilac scattered there.

  William and I stand before the officiant. I’m in a strapless, cream-colored, knee-length sundress with silver-chain piping along the hemline, which I sewed on myself. No jewelry. A modest birdcage veil. For William, I chose a summer gray suit and tie. Ben, dressed in a black tux, is possibly more suited for the affair than either of us. He stands beside me. Alex and Toby remain seated on the sofa behind us.