I flopped facedown in bed, knowing I would wrinkle my uniform but too dejected to care. I felt disappointed for myself, but even worse, I had finally made a friend and now I had to disappoint him too. Right now Gary was in bed feeling relieved, trusting that he could rely on his closest friend to be at his side, the one bright spot in a time of darkness and heartache. He had been married before! Just when I thought he was no longer capable of surprising me. For him, this wedding was not a joyous occasion but a dangerous one, conjuring up painful memories, especially now, as his relationship with Irina imploded, and I knew as well as anybody how ruthless memories could be in their pursuit of you. I needed to go back down and deliver the bad news, before he had time to solidify it all in his mind. But I couldn’t. My legs wouldn’t go. I would have to stop by in the morning before work; that would give me some time to come to terms with the situation. And if by chance I found he’d left early or wasn’t available for some reason, I would leave a note that he would be sure to see the instant he returned home. Tomorrow, I would face it all tomorrow.
* * *
The morning came, and I left for work without knocking or writing a note. It didn’t feel so much like a decision, more like my body was doing things and not doing other things, and I had no choice but to cooperate. Still, nothing was permanent yet, and I could be more pragmatic and levelheaded in the light of morning. Technically it was not impossible to cancel the date of an exam up to twenty-four hours in advance, though I hadn’t wanted to admit that at first. The idea of putting it off even one extra minute, after all my laboring and strategizing and outright lying, felt almost as crushing as failure. The letter on my fridge, the uniform in my closet, the card in my pocket—I felt a sense of responsibility to them. They had to be official and irreversible, they relied on it. And I’d carefully crafted them to build up to a single end point, August 25. I pictured my father searching online for a gift and coming across EMS Monthly, eagerly entering his credit card information. I pictured Gary at the bakery, requesting a custom cake. Lying had only been okay when I knew that, on August 25, it would transform into the truth. How could I go turning my back on them and on my future self, after she’d put her faith in me? I traced the shape of my certification card against my leg—Amy Hanley, Registry No. E4068211. FROM: Proud Dad. Congratulations, congratulations, congratulations.
But on the other hand, the wedding was a onetime affair. There would be no do-overs, no way to make it up to Gary. I was the only thing standing between him and a pit of misery, and he was counting on me, as he had been all summer, and I hadn’t let him down yet. If the roles were reversed, I wouldn’t want him to jeopardize his future in any crucial way, but I would also be touched by his willingness to sacrifice for me, and what was a friend, if not someone willing to make sacrifices in your time of need? I had a chance to prove to Gary and to myself that, unlike Irina, some people were willing to put the needs and feelings of others above their own. And by refusing to be indifferent to his suffering, by not ignoring or minimizing it, wouldn’t I actually embody what it means to be an EMT more than I would by getting a passing grade on some exam?
Postponing didn’t have to feel like giving up, if I didn’t let it. If I edited the date on the letter, it could simply mean an adjustment to the treatment plan, a common practice with any patient. Plus, the additional time should only make the treatment more potent, enabling me to pass the exam with even more confidence and ease. By the time I navigated through the crowd arriving for day two of the regatta, I’d settled it, and soon I was up in room 8, dusting the nightstand with the calm determination that comes with knowing you’re doing the right thing.
Two small boys were staying in room 8 with their mother, and they’d transformed the nightstand into a police headquarters. The officers smelled like graham crackers and stuffy noses, and, as I swabbed around them, careful not to intervene, my lower back spasmed, still tender from carrying the box the day before. It reminded me once more how lucky I am that my organs and tissues and cells have been assembled in the right way, not only so that I might do hard work and every day strive to do better but also so that I might take full advantage of my time off, like the following weekend, when I would accompany Gary to a wedding on Cape Cod. It was really happening. “It’s really happening!” I announced to the tiny policemen in room 8, because I had to tell someone.
* * *
That weekend I set out to take care of my wedding preparations. Though it felt strange to leave the house without reading my letter or pocketing my card, I’d decided to put my treatment on hold until after the wedding so I wouldn’t be distracted or tempted to change my mind. After, I would be recharged and refocused, ready to select the best available date, amend my letter, and resume my treatment plan, maybe even add to it somehow, a Phase IV.
I stopped by the beach on my way. The ocean was crammed with swimmers, their belongings left behind to cook in the sand, umbrellas and towels the colors of ripe summer fruit. They flounced their heads and arms up and down in the water like cookies dunking themselves in milk. It must have made me smile because when I turned away, a homeless-looking man sitting with his hands roofed over his eyes made a comment. “A radioactive smile,” he said. It surprised me, partly because I’d never seen a homeless person here before, and partly because I wasn’t accustomed to drawing such attention from strangers. I swiveled my head and saw no one else, so he had meant me, my smile.
An ice cream truck had parked nearby, and spontaneously I joined the line behind a group of teenage girls with tan lines that mapped all the different styles of bathing suits they’d worn that summer. They’d drawn on their ankles and calves with black permanent marker; one had incorporated her mosquito bites into the shapes of flowers. She was lifting her hair in front of her face, to simulate how bangs would look. “Don’t do it,” her friend said. “Syd can pull them off, because obviously, it’s Syd. But have you seen Madison’s? Her skin’s way too oily. It looks like they’re glued to her forehead. But she’ll do whatever Syd does.”
“I thought you liked Madison.”
“I like her in the sense that . . . she has a car.” They squawked with laughter. The sound brought me back to the days when I was one of them, flitting here and there, never caring too deeply or trying too hard, never needing to. Last summer, standing in line behind girls like these would’ve plunged me into depression. I might’ve even tapped one on the shoulder and tried to warn her that life wouldn’t always be this way, so effortless and so abundant. But now I had no reason to meddle in anyone else’s business because I had my own to attend to, a wedding next weekend and important errands like getting a haircut and finding the perfect dress.
The ice cream man pointed to the Cash Only sign and the girls made a fuss, whining and pleading, though half-heartedly, until one, the leader, gave up. “Come on,” she said. “Let’s pretend like we’re blind, deaf, and dumb,” and they stampeded off behind her, flip-flops clapping like mad. I ordered an ice cream sandwich and carried it to where the homeless man sat. I knew better than to laugh or feel sorry for him, but I could still extend a little goodwill by offering up the ice cream. After everything the universe had blessed me with lately, I felt an almost superstitious duty to pay it forward, or else.
The man took the sandwich and squinted at it with uncertainty or even disgust. I felt him on the verge of saying or doing something hurtful, something that could cut me down from my lofty place, so I sped away and didn’t look back.
I headed for downtown, full of a growing appreciation for myself and the place I called home. A sprinkler whipped in staccato circles, throwing out water in long silver ropes. Two dogs pulled at their leashes to greet each other, their tails going like windshield wipers. A woman in a wide-brimmed hat pulled a boy and his toys in a red thing behind her, and I couldn’t summon the word for what that red thing was called. I felt delighted by such an odd, inexplicable lapse. Only once they’d rolled by did it finally come to me: wagon. Wagon!
&nbs
p; A car blared its horn. The sudden noise spooked me so that I snagged my foot on a knob in the pavement and nearly fell. It honked again. I hid my face, walking faster and clutching the material of my shorts. Once on this same street, a truck had barreled by me and a boy had lunged out the window and yelled “It’s his birthday!” I’d had to watch them disappear, off to have a good time, while I was left alone on the sidewalk with no one to help get that voice out of my head. I’d tried talking to myself, even singing, but all I could hear was It’s his birthday, It’s his birthday, It’s his birthday.
But then I heard a shout that sounded almost like my name. I turned and saw Gary. He had pulled to the side of the road and was leaning out of his car to flag me down. I approached his window, a pit opening in my stomach. There had to be a reason he’d found me here, and most likely it was a bad one, like to tell me he and Irina had made up and our plans for the wedding were off. My own words—It’s really happening, It’s really happening—rang through my head just as they had through room 8, only this time with a mocking tone.
“Man, you must’ve been lost in some daydream,” he said. “These people think I’m some raving lunatic. Probably taking down my plate number as we speak.” He looked disheveled and wet, with his T-shirt suctioned to his skin and the seat belt pulled tight, restricting his movement.
“Did something happen?” I said.
“I went and jumped in the ocean, just like that. First time in years I’ve gone in. I got the urge this morning, so I just got up and did it. Right off the pier. It’s like I’m a new man, see. Free!” He spread his arms. “I haven’t heard from Irina at all, but I’m actually okay with it. I’m actually feeling pretty good about things. Even starting to look forward to next weekend.” He reached behind him, trying to pull some slack into his seat belt. “Unless, you . . . changed your mind?”
“I didn’t change my mind.” And thank god I hadn’t.
“Great. I was just on my way to get the car washed, but then I saw you walking. Thought you might want a lift. Where you headed?”
“Just downtown, to do some errands.” I wanted to protect the details, in case he tried to interfere with my good intentions, insisting I not trouble myself or waste any money. “But I really don’t mind walking.”
“No, no, I insist. Your chariot awaits. I can drop you on my way.”
I marveled at how his passenger seat felt familiar to me now, just like his kitchen table. He’d emptied the trash from the center console. “That’s okay,” I said, buckling in. “I actually like the car wash.”
The rush from the open window cleared my face and flung back my hair. I closed my eyes and imagined I was being tugged by the current of a river: I was a hardy stone surrounded by other hardy stones with no concept of the past or future, content to inhabit this one little pocket of Earth forever.
When the rush ceased and I opened my eyes, we were outside the dark tunnel of the car wash and Gary had his top half hoisted out the window so he could push buttons on a machine. The vibrations of the idling car had a sedating effect on me. As we moved through the phases of the wash, he made comments like “Isn’t it funny how you want to duck. Your instincts” and “These things always reminded me of giant linguine.” He was feeling jovial and chatty, and I appreciated that without making any effort to match it, for I was a content little stone and simply wanted to let the glorious current tug me along.
Gary dropped me by the drugstore, where I flipped through fashion magazines, searching for an inspiration photo and anticipating the cherished occasion of a haircut, which meant a visit from another person’s hands, massaging your scalp, adjusting the angle of your head. According to this magazine, you had to choose the right style for your face shape—mine fell somewhere between a heart and an inverted triangle—and consider hair type, body type, age, occupation, even personality. This was a lot to take into account, and I stood at the rack, growing dizzy from the perfumed pages, until finally I landed on a style that seemed flattering enough, with the hair resting an inch above the shoulders and shorter layers around the face. I paid for the magazine and carried it under my arm to Radiance Salon and Spa. I’d passed this salon many times. It looked fancy, with a bubbling fountain out front and painted rocks lining the path to the door. Now was the time to splurge.
Inside, it smelled fruity and chemically. The customers looked like planets under their round black smocks, with the hairdressers moving in orbits around them to snip and prune, and everyone laughing and chatting, watching their reflections in the giant mirror and waiting for the new, improved version of themselves to be revealed. I couldn’t wait to join in. At the front desk I found a bowl of pastel candies and a jug of hand lotion with “Tester” written on the front, but no receptionist, and no bell either. I waited, peeking around the corner every so often at the row of damp heads. One of them was bound to notice me. I tried waving. I didn’t want to interrupt and wasn’t sure of the protocol; maybe you were supposed to have an appointment just to step inside. I scolded myself—someone about to attend a wedding on Cape Cod should’ve thought to call ahead.
A blow dryer wailed. I pumped the tester lotion into my palm but couldn’t get it all rubbed in and had to blot the excess on my shirt. There was a cluster of sleek white armchairs and I contemplated sitting in one, but I didn’t know if that was a good idea or how much longer to wait. My neck was getting hot, and the magazine had gone limp under my arm. I wished I hadn’t brought it—they had a whole stack of them here anyway, fanned across a sleek white table at the center of the sleek white chairs. At last I let the magazine flop to the floor and walked out, the door chiming behind me in an awful, merry way.
Out on the sidewalk, I took measured breaths and tried to regroup. I gave myself a pep talk about not letting some stuck-up salon with a tacky fountain demoralize me when I had important plans and no time to sit and sulk. I entered the clothing boutique next door, where the attendant greeted me right away, asking how I was. “Sick of people,” I said.
“Preaching to the choir.” She pushed her cat’s-eye glasses up into her hair, a short pixie cut that complemented the oval shape of her head expertly. “Just give a shout if you need anything.”
I browsed through a rack of bland dresses, giving them a once-over and then pushing them down the line. My patience waning, I grabbed a fistful of hangers. In the narrow fitting room, surrounded on all sides by my reflection, I quickly grew exasperated by all the zippers and buttons and hooks. I’d never liked shopping. My mother used to insist on taking me to the mall for back-to-school sales every year, no matter how much I protested. She’d strap on her pocketbook each August, optimistic that this time she would say or do something irresistible, and for just an instant, she would catch me enjoying myself. Once she’d detoured us to a kiosk selling the most flamboyant, hideous hats. “Let’s pretend we’re in a movie montage. It’s so fun when they do that, try on a million hats or something.” She picked up the two most revolting ones, plonked one on my head, one on hers. “We have to take a picture. Would you mind?” she said to the man working the kiosk, already thrusting her camera into his hands. “We don’t have any pictures just the two of us.” Right before he pressed the button, I pulled the hat down so it covered my face. “Oh,” she said when she realized.
We’d given each other the silent treatment on the drive home. Except for one thing. She said it softly, maybe not even meaning to say it aloud. She said, “I always used to imagine having a daughter . . .” Then she trailed off. It wasn’t like her to hold back, and it haunted me more than any sentence she finished.
But what I would’ve given to have her here with me now. To step out in a dress and find her waiting there. The two of us together in the next stage of life, the one where we could be friends, sharing the details of our adult lives and laughing about those angst-filled years that seemed so ridiculous and hilarious now. I would ask her opinion, listen to what she said, finally let her see my excitement, let her share in it. She would know exac
tly what looked best, she always had. And when we had found it, I’d ask a stranger to take our photo, me in the new outfit she’d picked out and her at my side, my arm hugging her tight, my head resting on her shoulder.
But I would settle for so much less than that. Just hearing her voice—just for a moment, saying anything to anyone, even far off in the distance, barely intelligible. Or no voice at all. Just to crouch down and see her feet on the other side of the door. For that I would’ve given up my plans with Gary and any other plans I might ever have again, any good thing that might have come to me in the future. The wish burned in my chest until I was doubled over. All she’d wanted back then was to bond with me over something superficial and fun, and I refused her just as I’d refused her so many times before, and after. I shuddered with disgust for myself. I still couldn’t understand why it had been so difficult, so utterly impossible, for me to humor her even once.
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