Curveball: The Year I Lost My Grip

by Jordan Sonnenblick

  “Nothing.”

  He raised one eyebrow. It’s amazing how many people do that to me. “Really?” he said. “Because you look pretty bummed.”

  “I’m fine. Really.”

  There went that eyebrow again.

  “Look, thanks for asking. But I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Did you have a fight with Angelika?”

  I forced myself to laugh. “Angelika? Angelika who? Oh, you mean that girl in photography?”

  The brow shot up even higher. Watch out, San, I thought. If somebody hits you on the back right now, you could be stuck that way for life. At least that was what my mom had always told me whenever I started crossing my eyes at dinner to make Samantha laugh.

  “Yeah, that girl in photography. The one who’s been your partner all year. Come on, like you don’t know you’re the pet freshman couple of the class?”

  I sighed. “Yeah, I had a fight with Angelika. What do you care, anyway? And why are you even around this late?”

  “I’m around this late because my girlfriend is inside practicing for the talent show. And I care because — well, what the heck? I’m sitting here anyway. I might as well be trying to help somebody.”

  “Uh, thanks. I guess. But there’s nothing anybody can do to solve the problem right now. You have any advice for how to stop feeling like I just got chewed up and spit out?”

  He closed his eyes and thought about that one for a while. Then, all of a sudden, a shadow fell on us. I looked up, and a girl was standing there, holding a banged-up guitar case and smiling down at San. She was pretty, in a frizzy-headed semi-hippie-ish kind of way. She kicked his foot, and he said, “Hey, Emily.” Then he stood up and they kissed for so long I was embarrassed to be sitting there.

  When the epic lip-lock finally broke, Emily said, “What’s up, San?”

  He gestured down at me. “My freshman companion here has a problem. He wants to know what to do when you feel totally bummed about a problem you can’t solve.”

  “Hi, freshman companion — uh, what’s your name?”

  “Pete,” I said.

  “Hi, Pete. You know, San and I have both been in this situation, and do you know what we did?”

  I just looked at her blankly. How was I supposed to know what they had done? I barely even knew him, and all I knew about her was that she had big hair, and kissed with great fervor.

  “We both did the exact same thing, and it totally worked.”

  “Oh, yeah? What was it?”

  “We found somebody who needed help, and then we helped them. It sounds corny, but once you start helping people, your own stuff just kind of … well … falls into place. Come on, San.”

  He bent his knees and kind of crouched down so his eyes were just above the level of mine. “You going to be all right?”

  “I, uh, I guess so. I think I’ll be going now, before anybody else stops by to give me unsolicited couples therapy.” He stood and started to walk away, hand in hand with Emily.

  I felt bad as soon as the words had come out of my mouth. This was the second time in an hour I had snapped at somebody who tried to give me advice. “Wait,” I said. They both turned. “Thanks,” I said. “But who am I supposed to help?”

  “Who needs it the most?” San asked. Then he and Emily strolled across the front walkway of the school, and got into the last car in the student parking lot.

  For the next few weeks, things were tense with Angelika. It was pretty darn annoying, because she kept texting AJ about me (“Pete has something to tell you!”), and texting me about AJ (“Told him yet?”). Then AJ would text me about Angelika, and text her about me. He was in this odd kind of Dr. Phil role, and believe me: AJ might be my best friend, but that doesn’t qualify him to be a relationship counselor.

  Here’s a typical session between AJ and me, from the day before Thanksgiving:

  AJ: So, what’s the deal? Are you guys, like, back together yet? Because truthfully, this is getting kind of stressful for me.

  Me: Stressful for you? I’m the one who had a girlfriend for two and a half days, followed by a month of nonstop tension.

  AJ: Actually, marriage counseling happens to be one of the most stressful professions.

  Me: And you know this how?

  AJ: It’s just known. Why are you always asking me how I know stuff? If you say the sky is blue, I don’t ask you for a freaking bibliography of sources to prove it.

  Me: Sigh.

  AJ: Anyway, you’re only being all snippy with me because you’re displaying classic resistance.

  Me: Resistance? What are you talking about?

  AJ: It’s when a patient’s unconscious mind works to undermine the relationship between the patient and the therapist. Don’t worry, it’s quite common. Plus, it prob’ly means you’re on the verge of a major breakthrough.

  Me: And you know this how?

  AJ: Haven’t you ever watched that psychologist reality show on cable? You know — The Nut Boss?

  Me: Um, I must’a missed that one, but whatever. Listen: Can’t you just give me, like, normal boy-girl advice?

  AJ: Sure. Buy her some freaking daisies.

  Me: Daisies? That’s all you’ve got?

  AJ: Or roses. Chicks totally dig roses.

  Me: Thank you, Dr. Freud.

  On Thanksgiving, my family has a tradition: My grandfather comes over in the morning, and we watch the Phillipsburg–Easton high school football game. They’re these two towns about half an hour from where we live, and they’ve been huge football rivals for something like 107 years. My dad went to Phillipsburg High, and Grampa went to Easton, so it’s a pretty big deal in our house. I know this sounds totally sexist — but Samantha helps Mom in the kitchen all morning while the three generations of men sit in front of the TV and argue about the game.

  But this year was different. This year, Grampa couldn’t keep up his end of the conversation. I don’t think Dad noticed — give Dad a beer, chips, and a wide-screen TV, and he wouldn’t notice if Godzilla sat down next to him on the couch. But I couldn’t stand it. Dad would complain about a call, which in previous years would have made Grampa snort in disgust. This year, Grampa just grunted. Dad would jump up and cheer when his team scored, which always used to make Grampa say, “Oh, sit down, there’s a lot of game left.” This year, Grampa just looked kind of baffled. So I sat there and fumed, wondering how on God’s green earth these people could possibly be oblivious to what was so clear to me.

  When halftime finally came, after what felt like a million years, I had to get out of that room for a while. I asked Grampa if he wanted to come down and see what I was working on in photo class. Of course, he came, but looking at pictures didn’t immediately snap him out of his fog like I had hoped it would. I showed him my portraits of Angelika, which he had already seen, but still, I liked looking at them. “Pretty girl,” he said. I started to smile; he might not have remembered the pictures, but at least he thought my semi-girlfriend was attractive. “Who took these?” he continued. I reminded him that we were looking at my work, and he grinned, but kind of vaguely.

  Next, I clicked through some of the best sports shots I had taken, and for some reason, he seemed more focused on these. Looking at one particularly tack-sharp photo I had taken of AJ going up for a rebound in basketball, he even asked me what lens I had used. I told him it was his old favorite 85mm prime lens, and he got all excited. “I love that lens,” he said. “Can I see it?”

  I was a bit taken aback, because he hadn’t wanted to get involved with the actual equipment of photography for months. I went and got the lens out of my camera bag, though. He took it in his hands and turned it over and over, bending his neck and squinting intently. “That’s not my lens. What camera would take a strange-looking piece of glass like that?” he spat.

  I took it back from him, set it down on the computer desk, and scrambled to get his best Nikon camera body. Then I attached the lens, and held it out to him. “This is the camera, Grampa,�
�� I said quietly. “It’s your best body. You always called it ‘Numero Uno.’”

  He laughed. “Numero Uno? That thing? That’s not Numero Uno — it’s not even one of my cameras. First of all, Numero Uno is a Leica. Second of all, Numero Uno isn’t nearly that big. Or that fancy-looking. All those buttons and dials — I wouldn’t even know where to put in the film!”

  “Uh, it doesn’t take film.”

  “What are you talking about? A camera that doesn’t take film! What does it print onto — toilet paper?”

  “Gramp,” I said as gently as I could, “it’s a digital camera. It saves all its images onto a memory card.” I held the camera out for him to examine more closely.

  He looked and looked at that camera, then sat down heavily in the chair, looking absolutely defeated. “I’m losing it, Peter. Don’t tell your mother, but I am losing it.”

  I didn’t know what to say. Really, who would?

  I stood over him for a while, still holding the camera out like a moron. Then he said, “The other day, I forgot your grandmother’s name for a minute. We were married for fifty years, and I forgot her name. What am I going to do? I don’t want to forget my own wife.”

  I didn’t want my grandfather to know I had noticed the tears that were trickling down his face, so I pretended to be scrutinizing the camera. I even mumbled the button functions to myself: “Aperture. Flash. ISO. Video Record.”

  Video record! I thought of San saying, “Who needs it the most?” I thought of Henri Cartier-Bresson’s words: “We cannot develop and print a memory.” But maybe I could, in a way. Maybe I could help my grandfather record what he remembered before it was gone forever. I ran and got Grampa a tissue, then attached the camera to a tripod while he dried his eyes.

  I focused the camera right on Grampa’s face, and said, “Hey, Gramp. Can you tell me how you and Grandma met?” Then I pressed the VIDEO RECORD button.

  “It was the first day of classes at New York University, 1958. My first class, Portrait Photography, had just ended, and I’d sprinted the three blocks to my next class. I got to the lecture hall early, carrying my huge Psychology 101 textbook in one hand, and my camera in the other. I sat down in the third row, because you should never sit in the first two rows. It makes you look like a kiss —

  “Um, wait … what were we talking about again? Oh, right, your grandmother. She walked in and my heart stopped. She was wearing a bright green dress. I dropped my book, and it made a loud BANG! on the tile classroom floor. I grabbed Numero Uno, and swung it up just as she looked to see where the noise had come from. If not for that Leica camera, who knows what would have happened. I got the shot, I got the girl … and I got a C-minus in psych! With your grandmother next to me, who could concentrate?”

  By the time we got called back upstairs for dinner, Grampa was pretty cheerful. I didn’t know whether recording his memories would slow down whatever was happening to his brain, but it had definitely helped his mood. I felt good, too, like I was finally doing something besides sitting around and worrying. Plus, Grampa had looked so vibrant and alive when he talked about my grandmother — and there was so much I hadn’t known! I mean, I had seen the black-and-white photo of a very young Grandma in a dress on Grampa’s dresser a million times, but I hadn’t known he’d taken it in the first minute of their life together.

  As soon as we had all piled our plates high with food, my dad announced that we were going to do the dreaded say-what-you’re-thankful-for thing before we ate. Samantha rolled her eyes, but when it was her turn she said, “I have a lot to be thankful for this year. I’m so thankful that we could all be here together today. I’m thankful that I was lucky enough to be born into a family that could afford to pay for my college. And my car. Especially in this economy, with gas being so expensive and all. Of course, I almost have enough in my account to keep up, as long as I don’t try to spend too much on fun things, or go to any parties, or —”

  Dad cleared his throat.

  “Anyway, I’m thankful for David —”

  (That’s her boyfriend at college. She hadn’t managed to say three sentences without mentioning him in the two days she’d been home.)

  “I’m thankful for Mom and Dad, for Grampy —”

  (Yes, she actually called him Grampy.)

  “And for my little brother, who is apparently taking over the high school. As a freshman! Impressive! Now, when do I get to meet this Angelina chick? I can’t believe Petey is old enough to have a girlfriend!”

  “Uh, it’s Angelika. And she’s not exactly my —”

  Mom cut me off. “Can we get back to being thankful? We have the rest of the year to bicker, OK? Peter, would you like to go next?”

  “I guess so.” I took a deep breath, and tried to organize my thoughts. There was some irritating stuff happening in my life, and some truly bad stuff. But I thought about the things AJ had said about my life when he’d thought I was asleep, and it hit me that there was a lot of good stuff, too.

  “I’m thankful for Grampa, for the time I get to spend with him, and for everything he’s taught me about photography. Well, about everything, really. And for all the amazing equipment. I’m thankful to Mom, for making me take photography class this year. I’m thankful that I have good friends who care about me. And a family. And, um, that’s it. So, thanks.”

  Smooth, I know. Somehow, my family managed to hold their applause. Mom reached over and squeezed my hand, though. “Next?” she said.

  My dad, who had been fiddling with one of the wings from the turkey because it kept dripping grease onto the tablecloth, stopped what he was doing and started to make a big old speech. It kind of figured that he wouldn’t say more than seventeen words the whole rest of the year, but then, when we were sitting in front of our first home-cooked meal in months, watching the sauces cool and congeal by the second, he’d suddenly start speechifying. But if he didn’t hurry, I was afraid the mashed potatoes would harden into a thick mass of fork-destroying glop.

  “We are lucky today to be in the presence of our loved ones, who have traveled great distances to join together and break bread …”

  (“Traveled great distances?” Samantha’s college was maybe eighty-five miles away. And “break bread”? Who says “break bread”? Honestly, Dad.)

  I played with my cranberry sauce, trying to see whether I could free a berry from the Jell-O-y part and leave a berry-shaped indentation. That’s harder than you might think, so I missed most of Dad’s oration. I tuned back in right at the end, when he said, “… and I am most thankful that I have a good job so I can work as hard as I have to, and make ends meet when, uh, additional expenses arise. Crises come and crises go, but I am very fortunate that so far, we have gotten through all of our crises … together.”

  (I wasn’t sure what the additional expenses were, aside from the demands of Samantha’s party budget, but I had certainly noticed the extra work Dad had been putting in. I didn’t stop to wonder for too long, though, because then it was Grampa’s turn.)

  Grampa didn’t say anything for the longest time. I noticed his eyes were wet and red-rimmed again, and I was pretty sure his hands were shaking. This isn’t you, Grampa, I thought. You don’t shake. You don’t cry. “I’m thankful,” he said, then stopped. He cleared his throat and started over: “I’m thankful for the girl in the green dress.” Then, right there at the table, he broke down and sobbed.

  I texted Angelika that night:

  Happy T-G! Cn I come ovr?

  She wrote back in thirty seconds, tops:

  Y?

  Grampa probs. Need 2 talk.

  Need 2 talk 2. Happy T-G! Get here @ 9?

  I got there at nine. Angelika’s mom let me in. Angelika was curled up on her living room couch in sweats, holding a ginormous mug of what turned out to be hot chocolate. Soon I was sitting stiffly at the far end of the couch with a huge mug of my own. Angelika’s dad was nowhere to be found, but Angelika’s mom sat down on a big easy chair about four feet away from
me and started chatting her head off. Clearly, she was determined to be her daughter’s chaperone for the evening.

  All I wanted to do was talk to Angelika about my grandfather, and ask what problems she was having. But it was kind of hard, because her mom was hovering like a bathrobe-clad she-hawk, firing off question after question: How’s school? How’s the newspaper? How’s the yearbook? How’s your friend AJ? — I haven’t seen him around for days!

  (Hoo boy, I thought. AJ’s been around?)

  I tried to be as boring as possible with my answers, hoping I could just wear her out until she gave up, decided I was too slow-witted to be any threat to her daughter, and fled upstairs. It didn’t work. Whenever her mom looked away, though, Angelika rolled her eyes and made apologetic faces — which at least let me know she wanted to be alone with me, too.

  This weird stalemate was only broken when Angelika’s dad called for her mom to come upstairs. As soon as she did — after one last, lingering look at her daughter — Angelika stretched her legs out so her feet were just touching the side of my left leg. “Hey,” she said. I didn’t know what the heck was going on with our so-called relationship, but one thing was for sure: All Angelika had to do to make me fall completely in testosterone with her again was give me two feet and a “hey.”

  “Uh, hi,” I mumbled.

  “So what’s the problem?” she asked. “Lumpy potatoes? Dry turkey? Too much of the dreaded green-bean-and-cream-o’-mushroom casserole?”

  I tried hard to forget about her feet against my leg — which was tough, because every once in a while, just when I was almost ready to stop sweating, she would wiggle her toes. I tried even harder to forget about the weirdness we’d been going through. I tried hardest of all to block out my questions about why AJ had been coming to her house. And I told her all the latest news about my grandfather. She listened silently, through several rounds of toe wiggling and a few sneak peaks through the stair railing by her mother.