“Come in. Come in.” Dad shuffled over to the room with Connor close behind him. “Jules, you’re in my chair!”
Eyes still closed, I blindly shot right up from my seat.
“Ah, Jules, I’m pullin’ your leg!” My father laughed. “That was Pop Pop’s chair. He doesn’t mind you sitting there.”
Dad slowly lowered himself onto the sofa beside me, with what seemed like quite a bit of trouble. When he was finally settled down, his energy suddenly spiked upward as he continued, “Where’s my lovely granddaughter? I want to see he—actually see her. Not that crap where you took out that little phone of yours and her face was talking at me through the screen. Is she out of the place yet?”
“She’s fine, Dad,” I assured him.
Surprisingly, the next couple of minutes passed quite smoothly, and for a while, it seemed as though we could have a conversation if I dodged all the heavy topics. Connor was great when it came to talking about topics such as baseball and the old neighborhood and somehow managed to keep Dad’s interest, for the most part. But every so often, the conversation would drift back to Sage. How was she? What was she up to? Was she still planning on becoming the first woman mayor of New York City? It was like Dad suddenly developed this fixation on her, and nothing else mattered.
“Dad, Sage is still at the hospital… and Mike is visiting her right now,” I explained. “She’s in excellent hands. Believe me. He’d text or call if anything was wrong.”
My father was never one to mince words. Shaking his head, his voice growing more noticeably irate, he turned to Connor and said, “The guy pays to have my granddaughter get her head fixed at some fancy-schmancy resort in Connecticut, and now he thinks he deserves a medal for Father of the Year.”
Ever unruffled in the line of fire, Connor simply grinned and replied, “I don’t know, sir. People will pleasantly surprise you when you least expect it.”
Dad let out a long, drawn-out sigh in response. “When I met Julia’s mother, I knew for certain that I didn’t want to spend another moment with another woman for as long as I lived. You kids were too young to remember her, but I never forgot. Ana was the most beautiful woman from the Grand Concourse who ever lived. Long black hair. Dark brown eyes. I had to make up some nonsense story about wanting to learn Spanish just to get her to look at me. And it worked. She took it very seriously.”
“Dad, Connor doesn’t want to hear these stories,” I protested.
“Ever since you three were kids running around in this house,” he continued, “everyone in the neighborhood knew the deal. My daughter, Jules, was a tomboy and stubborn. You, Connor, were a good kid from a good family, and Michael…” his voice trailed off.
“Dad, please. Connor doesn’t want to hear this,” I said again, only this time a little more firmly.
“My father knew all about his grandpa, just to give you an idea of the history,” Dad explained. “That family was trouble way before they even got off the boat… always causing some kind of commotion. Every man was a drunk that either took off—or got booted out—leaving the women behind to clean up their messes, raising the kids with no help.”
“Is this really the time, Dad?” I asked.
“Sage does not have the sickness,” he insisted, turning to me, “not with a smile like that. She needs a father who’s an adult. Not to have her mother running around trying to keep it all together—alone.”
And there it was: The insinuation that Sage’s illness was our fault. Actually, it was a flat-out denial that it even existed. But I knew where Dad was going with it. If Mike hadn’t run off. If I was stronger and had a better handle on everything. There was no acknowledgment of a genetic component or even an understanding of how brain chemistry works. This was all simply an overblown problem that needed to be fixed. I just wasn’t using the right hammer.
“Most people knew something about commitment then, too. That made it worse,” Dad continued, completely bypassing my objections (or obvious discomfort). “That’s all I’m saying. It wasn’t crazy then like it is now. Families stayed together. Ana and I had a few good years together, and it could have lasted a lifetime…” his voice trailed off, overcome suddenly with a hint of sadness and sensitivity that seemed almost foreign to me. He continued, “Then she got a break from me, I suppose. Well, it looks like it’s going to be my turn. At least I’ll get to see her again soon enough.”
My shoulders slumped in defeated sadness. Dad always got like this whenever he talked to anyone visiting the house. He’d go on one of his long, old-man tangents. Usually, somewhere in there was a backhanded comment over how I’d screwed up by marrying Mike. How life would have been so much easier for me had I made a better choice. Sometimes that message came out more evident than others. And then came reminiscing. In Dad’s rose-colored version of the past, everything had once made sense, and all was right in the world. There was no poverty or injustice. No broken families. Only very recently did it all get messed up by crazy society. And then suddenly, his ranting all came back to her—my mother—and the way life should have turned out, had she not given up the way she did.
That was when I truly noticed for the first time that all his photographs were gone. Sage had gotten her taste for photography from somewhere. Growing up, the walls, bookshelves, mantle, seemingly everything had been lined with photographs from the past—pictures that made you stop and wonder whether there had been a simpler time, when everyone looked the same, you became whatever your father was, and no one questioned the social order but simply embraced its very existence with open arms. And then everything had just stopped being simple, stopped making sense.
Looking around, I saw there were a few boxes Dad must have packed on his own. I began to wonder just what had run through his head when he’d made this decision in the first place. What made him decide just to pack everything up and away, to no longer fight, and just like he said… see my mother again soon?
“Mr. Brody,” Connor began slowly, “I have some friends in the medical community. This home is part of your history. Maybe you’d like to get a second opinion from a different doctor and stay here a little while longer—”
“I won’t hear of it. Like I told Julia here, I had a good run. Now, let’s get me to this new place in one piece. Hopefully, I’ll still be around next week, so Sage can visit.”
The comment stung me so profoundly, but there was no point in arguing. That was all there was to it. Dad wasn’t asking for reconciliation or to be someone others felt sorry for. He wasn’t asking for understanding or permission. And like everyone else, I was just a blip on his radar, a train passing through the tunnel on a journey never truly meant to intersect with his own.
“Of course, Mr. Brody,” Connor conceded. And then, standing up, he added, “So, what boxes can I carry for you?”
Chapter 6
The City
Julia
With everything seemingly falling apart at a record rate, I needed some sort of break for myself. I needed to put myself out there. I just had to force myself, even though I truly wanted to crawl into my own little safe haven and hide. So, when my friend Jordan invited us to an impromptu graduation party later that night to celebrate his impending degree in urban planning, Connor and I grabbed my neighbor Cristina and ventured out to the Lower East Side. Granted, I was never much of a partier, and in many ways, I was quite the outsider. However, these were dark times, and I needed to find something, anything. Even if just for one evening.
Before leaving my apartment, I took a quick glance in the mirror and was actually a bit surprised by what I saw. With flat-ironed hair, my favorite shade of lipstick, and my newest black leather tote in hand, I looked like a sharp, attractive single woman about to enjoy a Saturday night full of fun.
I took one more glance down at my phone’s weather app. There was a 30 percent chance of snow predicted for the evening. Looking at my reflection once again, I decided uncharacteristically to take a chance instead and left my apartment in the tr
endiest (and most expensive) red sling-back heels I owned.
I was a little excited, and a lot curious, especially since Jordan lived in Manhattan. Most people I knew simply couldn’t afford it, and those who could afford it had long settled their families into the Westchester suburbs instead. Apartments in the city, I always thought, were a funny thing. Travel to any of the outer boroughs, and you’re almost guaranteed twice the square footage for a third of the price, give or take. But there simply isn’t a single place in the entire world quite like Manhattan. There was something special about being in the heart of where life happens, where an adventure is truly just a subway stop or taxi ride away.
Jordan’s place reflected a piece of that. The space was small, but the energy was electric. Freelance writers, graduate students, personal trainers, budding recording artists, visual artists— not one category quite fit, but it all still came together. Under the dim lights, I found myself almost entranced by the multitude of conversations as they unfolded before me. As I listened to each more attentively, I felt myself become intensely aware of my own self-imposed alienation. Yet I stood there, not uttering a single word—just listening.
“… But I feel like we’re living in a different time,” said this intimidatingly stunning ice blonde, Jemma, who was standing by a hand-carved wooden bookshelf surrounded by a gaggle of fawning admirers. “I tried explaining to my partner that a hundred hits online is a starting point, and I’m proud of it, but really it’s just that: a starting point. But a few thousand… careers can be built on that…”
“… That performance at Oreana, which I heard was amaze…” commented this very tall, Williamsburg lumberjack type involved in a different conversation across the room. A thick, scraggly beard had seemingly hijacked his face; his dark hair was twisted atop his head into a style very reminiscent to one of Sage’s messy buns.
“… She doesn’t like brunch? How do you survive three years of law school and just refuse to go to brunch?” exclaimed Cristina to a few friends who simply shook their heads gently in agreeable disbelief.
My attention journeyed from person to person, quickly, not wanting to linger too long. I kept trying to think of someone I could approach, something I could just throw in, and anything that would at least make me a part of a conversation. But the words began to jumble together. Instead of words, all I heard were indistinguishable sounds that formidably gained momentum, taking on a life of their very own. My jaw clenched, and my hand trembled slightly at the thought of what I might have to say: Hi, I’m Julia… Yes, I’m divorced and have a child… Oh, well, she’s away right now… No, not in school… You see, she’s bipolar… No, no, she’s actually bipolar, not the insensitive slang term used for highly unpredictable people.
I could just imagine how far that conversation would go.
Feeling completely out of place and overwhelmed, I somehow found myself wandering into the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Connor was in the center of an eclectic group of people, shouting over the raucous music. Whatever he said must have been quite funny, because almost everyone exploded into laughter. Nearly doubling over, laughing at his own joke, Connor caught my eye from across the room and tried to wave me over.
I abruptly turned away and bolted out of there, making a sharp right into a hallway.
“Hey, Lia! Where are you going?” I could hear Connor calling behind me.
I had to ignore him. It just wasn’t happening. I wasn’t going to enjoy myself until I knew that Sage was all right, and there wasn’t a joke Connor could tell or an insight he could make that could change that for me in any way. I ducked into Jordan’s bedroom, where everyone had left their coats, and fished my cell out of my purse. I dialed the main line to Sherwood Pines.
“Sherwood Pines Adolescent Center,” recited the woman on deck at the nurses’ station.
“I’m calling for Sage Sloane,” I replied.
There it was again. That trembling hand as invisible knots and double knots formed deep within my stomach. I tried to tighten my grip, but it was of no use.
“Who’s speaking?”
“Julia Brody. Her mother.”
“One moment.”
I kept looking up at the door, praying it wouldn’t open. Finally, I heard her voice.
“Mom, what are you doing? I thought you were seeing friends tonight.”
“No, honey, I’m in the city,” I began. “I just wanted to check in with you to make sure you’re all right.”
“Mom, I’m fine. A bunch of us are having cooking with the counselors.”
“Cooking?”
“Don’t freak out. We’re not actually cooking. We’re making a bunch of stuff like pudding with graham crackers—nothing that requires fire or knives.”
I nodded and truthfully felt a bit relieved. “Well, that sounds fun.”
“It is fun. Like the fun you promised me you’d have tonight.”
Yeesh. I was getting social advice from my teenage daughter. “Honey, it’s not that simple—”
“Yeah, it is. Where did you end up going?”
Leave it to my daughter to be more interested in gossip than my concern for her. “Downtown. We’re celebrating Jordan’s graduation—well, upcoming graduation.”
Sage’s voice predictable grew excited. “Oh, Mom, you’re ruining everything by calling me.”
“I could never ruin anything by speaking with you,” I protested. How could she ever think anyone was more important?
“You are ruining everything, and you don’t even realize it. You need to hang up now and talk with adults your own age!”
I had to hand it to her. Even in the middle of nowhere, Sage was completely in tune with the ins and outs of life downtown. She sounded more and more like her father by the minute. “They’re nothing extra,” I said. “God, I’m probably embarrassing Connor right now—”
“Uncle Connor’s there too, and you’re calling me? Mom! OOOH! Wait a minute. You should go dancing after this!”
“Sage, don’t be ridiculous,” I scoffed, circling the heel of my right shoe over Jordan’s carpet.
“Since when is having fun on a Saturday night ridiculous? Mom? Are you listening to me, Mom?”
There was a soft knock on the door.
Cristina’s friend Imani, a woman who was born to walk a model runway, was at the doorway, peeking in. I didn’t know Imani very well but recognized her from a few other parties I’d attended in the past. She was always so composed and known for her sharp-witted conversation. Was everyone at this party that much cooler than I? Knowing Cristina, Imani had probably been sent in as a non-threatening force to retrieve me. “I’m sorry. You’re busy. I won’t interrupt,” she apologized.
“Mom, who’s that?”
“No one,” I said.
“You should hang up and go talk to them, Mom. You can make a new friend.”
“Sage, not now.” I smiled at Imani and waved a bit dismissively, hoping she’d get the point and walk away.
“What? Mom! You’re with a whole group of people. And, for an added bonus, you can call and tell me all about it tomorrow, because I’m hanging up on you now. Bye!”
“Sage!”
Click.
I looked over once again at Imani, who gave me a polite little wave, meeting my eyes with concern. I nodded in her direction, giving up. I couldn’t avoid people forever. As she approached, I felt this incredible need to explain myself.
“I was just… making a call,” I mumbled awkwardly as I slipped my phone back into my tote.
“Are you all right?” Imani asked.
I managed a weak smile, but couldn’t think of anything smart or snappy to say.
Imani continued, “Look, I don’t know you very well, but I couldn’t help but notice you’re not having the best time tonight.”
I wanted to say that I wasn’t usually like this and didn’t want to appear rude, stuck up, or any other negative, childish trait I could think of. But I felt ashamed. I simply wasn’t being fair or givin
g anyone a chance. I knew that I wasn’t. It had been one big mistake in the first place. There I was, trying so desperately to ignore my loss and my pain.
“My daughter is in the hospital,” I whispered, then half expected Imani to reply that she already heard.
“Oh,” Imani’s eyes filled with sensitivity and sudden understanding. “Well, maybe you should be with her.”
“I can’t,” I said. “She wants me to be here. I’m supposed to be having a good time right now, and visiting hours will be over soon.” I felt even more absurd as the words left my mouth.
“Forgive me if I sound rude, but you’re not having a good time. Listen, I’m not going to ask for the details, because it’s none of my business, but I saw you on the phone as I was coming over. That was her?”
I nodded.
“Well, I don’t know the situation to say anything about it. I can say that there are definitely people here who would like to get to know you better. You’re Connor’s friend, right?”
“Yes, but I think it might be better to just leave.”
“That’s too bad,” she paused. “You know, you really shouldn’t go home by yourself, though. Besides, what are you going to do at home that’s better than being here?” her voice softened with kindness.
I laughed. “Probably grade papers. I teach English Language Arts at a private school, the Upper West Side, on 92nd.”
Imani nodded. “That sounds nice, but maybe you could use a break from all that now? You can come back for a bit and see how you feel. I think you owe it to yourself.”
Painting Sage Page 7