Sometime, Somewhere

by Kalyn Fogarty

  “I’m sorry, baby. Let’s just have a nice dinner. The Carlsons are so excited to see you,” he says, petting my knee. The Carlsons are a middle-aged couple. I’m pretty sure they have a daughter my age.

  “Okay, I’m sorry,” I say, looking up at him from under my thick lashes. I’m not wearing makeup, only a single swipe of mascara. I stretch across the seat and kiss him on the cheek. “I’ll be good.”

  “My good girl.” He kisses my mouth, his breath hot and sour, and I resist the urge to turn away. The price of perfection.

  ***

  “Delicious,” Sharon exclaims, licking her lips. Her husband wraps his arm around the back of her chair and pushes back from the table. His belly protrudes over his too-tight belt.

  I glance down at my half-finished salad stems. Delicious. I smile and nod my head like a puppet. Gordon gazes at me with pride, and I blush. It’s flattering how much he enjoys showing me off in front of his friends. Look how successful Gordon is, their admiring looks say. Look how young his girlfriend is! How little she eats at dinner!

  “We have to get together more often,” Gordon says, twisting my hair around his finger. “Karen doesn’t have many friends in the area,” he adds. I shake my head, the hair falling from his grasp.

  Sharon furrows her brow sympathetically. Oh god, please don’t invite me to your knitting club, I think to myself, trying to maintain my idiot grin.

  “You and my Missy would get along just fab-u-lously,” she says, her wrinkled face lighting up.

  “Missy is your . . . daughter?” I hesitate to ask. Maybe I should be embarrassed by this, but I’m so far past the point of caring. I know I’d never get along with anyone named my-Missy, especially if she’s anything like her dreadful mother.

  Her husband, Bob (of course his name is Bob), nods aggressively, the skin on his jowls flapping with each nod. “Yep, our little girl. She just graduated from UMass this past year. She’s living at home while she looks for a job.”

  “What does she do?” I ask. Not that I care. It doesn’t really matter. Bob’s a financial manager in Boston and makes plenty of money to support his little girl regardless of her career choice. With a name like Missy, her options are pretty limited, I’d think. Aerobics instructor? Chair of a fundraising committee? Party planner?

  “Kindergarten teacher,” Sharon says proudly. Ah, of course.

  I stifle my overwhelming desire to burst into laughter, or maybe its tears. I’m perilously on the verge of either or both. Gordon nods and grins like an next to me, no doubt fantasizing about the idea of Missy and me becoming close friends. Gordon doesn’t have children of his own, nor does he want them. He has me instead.

  “Awesome, just awesome,” I mutter, sipping my white wine. The absurdity of my situation overwhelms me, and I stand, wiping my mouth with my linen napkin. “Excuse me, I need to use the ladies’ room.” Sharon moves to follow, but I slide away before she can join me. Lucky I’m so young and light on my feet.

  The bathroom is fancy, and I sit in a stall for a few minutes. I dab a little lip gloss on my lips. Gordon hates the sticky gloss, so maybe it’ll repel his kisses in front of the Carlsons. On my way to the bathroom, I saw a back door, and I contemplate making my escape. My dinky little apartment sounds perfect right now. I’d give anything to sleep alone in my own bed. But Gordon drove me here and no doubt expects a thank-you for dinner. There’s no question in my mind that he’ll take me back to his place. His bed is very comfortable, but I really don’t feel like playing tonight.

  “Oh, excuse me,” a man says as I exit the ladies’ room and bump into his chest. He’s just left the men’s room across the hall.

  “Sorry,” I mumble, glancing up to meet his face. It takes only a second for me to recognize those hazel eyes framed by dark lashes. He has a dimple in his right cheek that deepens as he smiles down at me.

  “Karen Martin,” James says, shaking his head like he doesn’t believe it.

  “James Knight,” I say, biting my lip. Thankfully, Gordon can’t see us from his spot at the table. He hates when I talk to other men.

  James pulls me against his chest, and I reluctantly wrap my arms around him in a swift embrace. His hand stays on my elbow.

  “You look great,” he says. “Still competing?”

  I nod, not eager to get into my gymnastics woes. “Yes! Still going strong. You look great too. So tan.”

  He reddens. “Thanks. I went on a little vacation to Puerto Rico to celebrate before law school. Just me and some buddies,” he adds, too quickly.

  “Nice,” I say. I’m afraid if I’m gone much longer, Gordon will send Sharon to find me or, worse, come fetch me himself. “Hey, it was so good bumping into you, but I need to get back to my friends.”

  He looks crestfallen as he drops his hand from my elbow and steps back.

  “Sure,” he says, forcing a smile. “I should get back to my parents.” He nods toward a table by the window, where his parents are sitting and staring our way. They wave.

  “Can I take you to dinner sometime? Or coffee?” he asks.

  Every ounce of me wants to say yes. His sandy-brown hair is streaked with gold, all mussed up just like it was when he was a teenager. He reminds me of high school, of happier times. He’s so quick to smile. I want to get lost in his dimple. But then I remember where I am. Who I’m with. I think of Gordon. The vault. My real life.

  “I’m not sure. I’m so busy with practice right now. I have nationals, and then the trials . . .” My excuses sound pathetic. Who doesn’t have time for a quick meal with an old friend? Me, apparently.

  His smile fades and he nods. “Sure, sure. I get it. You know my number if you ever get some free time,” he says. “I’d really like to see you.” His sincerity physically hurts me. After all this time, he still has hope for me. If only he knew.

  “Thanks, James, I’d like that too. Have a good night. Say hello to your parents for me,” I say, standing on my tiptoes to kiss his cheek just as he moves to hug me. My lips land on his, and for a second we are locked in a sweet kiss. His mouth is still so familiar, the contours of our mouths fitting together like pieces of a puzzle.

  Pulling away takes all my strength. His cheeks are flushed, and it would be so easy to fall back into his arms, like falling back into the past. “Good night,” I mumble, tracing my fingers along his arm before turning back toward the dining room, feeling his eyes on my back.

  Nothing has changed as I take my seat next to Gordon. “Babe, we were about to send the rescue squad,” he says, sipping his wine. A better man would be able to read my face, notice my flushed cheeks, sense the seismic shift I’ve experienced. Instead, he kisses my forehead, oblivious.

  “Nope, made it out alive,” I kid. My heart beats too fast. I glance around the room. I don’t see him, but I know he’s there.

  21

  James

  After

  May 2004

  I’m feeling too much and feeling nothing at the same time. My emotions are running wild. Every thought, every sentiment I’ve ever experienced seems to be coursing through my brain all at once. This is at odds with my physical being. I can’t feel the floor under my feet or even my own arm. I keep trying to touch myself and there’s nothing. Maybe this is what paralysis is like. I’ve heard that when you lose one of your senses, the others are heightened. I assume this means I would smell better if I went blind. Maybe it applies to other things. Maybe when you lose your limbs, your brain gets stronger.

  After freaking out in the living room, I fell up the stairs into a bright and cheery bedroom. I see a picture of me and Karen on the bedside table and a few more arranged on the dresser. There is a hairbrush with thin auburn hairs stuck in it. It sits next to a stand holding a neatly brushed wig. The wig looks so much like Karen’s hair in high school I wonder if I’m hallucinating it.

  Then I remember. In an instant, my mind replays a series of phone calls with my mother many years ago. Karen has ovarian cancer.

  “No, I
’m okay,” she says now. I can hear her coming up the steps. I panic; there’s nowhere to hide. In a snap I am in the closet, surrounded by Karen’s clothes. Strangely, I can’t smell her perfume or even the laundry detergent. I only notice this because I’m trying to smell her. I imagine she smells like baby powder, just like in high school.

  “You want me to call the doctor?” a man’s voice calls after her. It’s my voice, only a little different. I can’t pinpoint what it is, only that there’s a note in this voice that I haven’t heard in mine in a long time.

  Karen is in the bedroom. Her big eyes are bloodshot and the skin beneath them is papery thin and purple. “No, I just need to lie down for a bit. I’m tired,” she says. She quickly pulls her shirt over her head and is standing in just a bra. I can see her ribs. Her arms are bruised and marked along her wrists and elbows. She slides out of her jeans. Her legs are still lean and firm. She always preferred bikini briefs.

  I’m careful not to breathe, not to make a sound. This isn’t too hard, since I’m still not sure whether I’m breathing at all anymore. She hasn’t noticed me, so I must be quiet. Her breathing gets heavier, and I know she’s asleep.

  I’m on the bed. I’ve moved so fast I startle myself. Behind me the closet doors are closed and nothing was disturbed. Perched on her bed, I don’t make a dent on the mattress. I’m weightless. One moment I was over there and now I’m here, drawn to her like a magnet. What the fuck is happening to me?

  I can’t stop myself. I seem to have no control of my hands at all. I reach toward her just to feel that she’s alive. I need to know she’s real. But my fingers touch nothing. I’m no longer on the bed but standing in the doorway. Karen sleeps soundly and I keep watching. I believe with all my heart she is real. It’s me I wonder about.

  ***

  Downstairs.

  Now I’m sitting across from myself at the kitchen table. Well, I’m not so much sitting as existing in the chair. I study this mirror image of myself. So this is what I look like to the rest of the world. Not too bad. My hair is longer on this man. I’m meticulous about getting mine trimmed every four weeks lest my unruly curls and cowlicks take over. A couple days’ worth of stubble darkens his cheeks and chin. I never could grow a mustache. I’m intrigued at the likeness, but the subtle differences interest me more.

  He is casually reading the paper, a pair of reading glasses propped on his nose. I always wear contacts, even when home alone. His arms are visible in the simple white T-shirt he wears and they’re strong, but not as defined as mine. I lift weights three times a week to keep my shape. He’s drinking coffee, and although I can’t actually smell the cinnamon, I would bet he takes it the same way I do. It’s the same way my father always drank his coffee.

  This man responds to “Jimmy.” Only my mother ever calls me Jimmy.

  I stand behind him. I am finally learning that all I need to do is think hard enough and my body responds. I want to see what he’s reading, since it sure doesn’t look like the Wall Street Journal.

  Boston Post. May 6, 2004.

  I feel myself falling again. This time, I’m not sure where I’ll find myself.

  22

  Karen

  Age 17

  February 1989

  Why do they make it so complicated? One has a simple pink line. Another two blue lines. A third has a ridiculous smiley face (I’m not smiling), while a fourth has a plus sign. I’m all peed out by now. I contemplate guzzling the rest of the iced tea and taking the last one, but I decide to save it for later. Maybe a few hours will make a difference.

  My mom is out with friends, and Dad is already passed out in his recliner, plate still in hand. By now our dog has probably licked it clean—along with any remnants stuck to Dad’s chin. Even though I’m essentially alone, I smuggled the pharmacy bag into the house in my backpack. I could’ve waltzed in with the tests in hand and Dad would have been none the wiser.

  Looking at the tests fanned out on the sink, I refuse to believe what is literally staring me in the face. This can’t be happening. We’re always so careful. Even though I’m not on the pill—a conversation I refuse to have with my mother—we always use a condom, sometimes two. It’s my stupid luck we’d be the ten percent with a malfunctioning Trojan. I can’t even have protected sex right. Broken condom or not, I didn’t think I could even get pregnant. I blame our sex education teacher for this misconception. She said women with extremely low body fat and irregular periods are less likely to conceive. I guess I should’ve confirmed this with my doctor, but since Mom insists on coming in to my appointments with me, I’ve never been able to bring myself to broach the topic. I wrongly assumed my crazy diet and workout schedule would keep me safe. Aunt Flow rarely visits me, so I wasn’t worried. Stupid public-school system.

  Oh my god, I’m PREGNANT. My brain can’t wrap itself around this fact. My body, on the other hand, knows. I want to puke, from both the nausea and the anxiety. I imagine falling down a flight of stairs, punching myself in the stomach. How can I go to nationals knocked up? The answer is simple. I can’t. But not going to nationals isn’t an option. My career would be finished.

  Sitting on the toilet, house phone in hand, I’m one number short of calling James. He’ll know what to do; he always does. His parents have talked to him about sex. Maybe they even told him what to do if his teenage girlfriend gets pregnant. They’ve prepared him for everything else; why not this? I’m lucky if my parents prepare dinner, so I can’t compare. I imagine having parents like his would be comforting. Safe.

  I dial. His mom picks up, and I almost start crying. She’s always been so kind to me. It feels like it takes forever for James to find his way to the phone. When I finally hear his breath across the line, it calms me. I’m no longer alone.

  “I was just going to call you. Have you done the calc homework yet?” he says, like nothing is wrong. For a moment I forget that I’m pregnant and on the verge of ruining his life.

  “No, not yet,” I answer. Reality rushes in again. I’m pregnant and about to change both our lives forever. Tears threaten to overwhelm me, but I swallow them back. Maybe there’s another way, and in the split second of silence, I make this decision for us both. “I was going to start it now. Let’s do it together.” I tuck the phone under my chin. In one motion I swipe all the tests into the plastic CVS bag and tie it in a knot before stuffing it to the bottom of the bathroom trash. I pocket the fifth test, still unopened. Satisfied they are properly hidden, I head back to my bedroom, where my backpack and trivial teenage problems await.

  “It’s freaking hard,” he complains. “When are we going to need calculus anyway? Lawyers don’t need calculus,” he jokes.

  I fake a laugh, unsure where the sound comes from. Someplace inside me there’s a box of false smiles and laughs, ready to go at a moment’s notice. “Unless you need to calculate your paycheck,” I kid, even though it doesn’t make any sense. Nothing makes sense. “Let’s start at the beginning.” I open my calculus book and begin copying down problem number one, like nothing is wrong.

  23

  Jimmy

  Age 31

  August 2002

  I’ve never been one to sit around and do nothing. I’m good with my hands, able to fix most things that are broken. When I see a problem, I go into action until I find a solution. Watching my wife fight a battle I can’t do a damn thing about is killing me. I’m helpless. Useless. Impotent.

  To make it worse, she refuses my help. It’s nothing new; she’s been like this since I met her, fiercely independent and headstrong. She always tries to go it alone. Whether it’s fixing a flat or installing a program on her computer, she waits until she’s ready to blow the damn thing up before asking for assistance. She’s clueless about cars and electronics, but she’d never admit it. When she was diagnosed with cancer, she treated it like anything else. She tried to convince me she could drive herself back and forth from the hospital for her chemotherapy appointments. Knowing how stubborn she is, I let her
go in her own car the first time and trailed a few lengths behind in my own. She waited two hours after her treatment to finally call and ask for a ride home. I never told her I’d been waiting in the parking lot the whole time anyway.

  While I love this about her, I also hate it. It’s her body, but I feel it too. I wish she’d realize she can lean on me and still stand on her own two feet.

  “I can’t do this anymore,” Wren moans. She’s bent over the toilet again. It’s been a bad day, one of many in a bad month. She had double chemo cycles this month, one on the fourth and the second a week later. It’s the shortest span between treatments that she’s ever tried. A last-ditch effort.

  “It’s almost over,” I say, rubbing her back.

  I hand her a tissue, and she wipes the corners of her mouth. Her lips are cracked; no amount of ChapStick seems to be helping. The hollows beneath her eyes are purple, but she glares at me, glossy eyes shining. “Over? It’s not over.,” she hisses. “It’s not over until I have a baby in my arms.”

  Everything is a fight lately. I feel like I’m walking on eggshells. “I meant this cycle is almost over. It’s always bad the day of, you know that.”

  I hate when she’s mad, but it’s nice to see some color in her cheeks. Lately her jaundiced skin seems to be radiating yellow.