That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  The blowout with my father tonight started when I told him I wanted to take Mom to her procedure on Friday. He kept saying I should focus on my studies, continue doing my work, and it sent me into a rage. I had been earning straight A’s since middle school. I’d graduated second in my class from an enormous high school in Jersey, and I had yet to meet a class I couldn’t master. That is not to say I was a genius, but I was a hard-as-shit worker. For my father to try to ban me from my mother’s care on the theory that it might negatively impact my grades was bull-crap, and we both knew it. So either it was as simple as it sounded, and my father actually just did not want me around, or my mother’s condition was even worse than they were letting on and he was trying to keep me in the dark. I finally decided I would just show up on Friday, whether he wanted me there or not.

  As I reached Butler, I saw groups of students congregating near the doors, huddled together beneath the building’s stately, cream-colored columns. I adjusted my backpack on my shoulder and scanned the small clusters of undergrads until I finally spotted Wesley. He was surrounded by several athletic-looking guys I didn’t recognize, all of whom seemed to be talking at the same time, creating a boisterous but opaque kind of chatter. Wesley saw me approaching and separated himself from the others, handing off a crumpled paper bag to someone in the bunch as he walked away.

  “Thanks, Latner!” one of the guys called after him. The others in the group all started grabbing for whatever was in the bag, like a pack of wolves competing in the dark. Wesley just walked on, approaching me as if I was the only person standing outside the library on that frigid night.

  “Hey.” He slowed his pace as reached me. “Ready to let your inner nerd out?” I could barely see his face with the golden light of the library coming from behind him in the dark night, but I could hear the playful smirk in his voice.

  “I hate to ruin your image of me, Sailor, but my nerd is totally out all the time. Nerd pride.” I pounded on my chest twice with my fist. I figured Wesley ought to know what kind of lady he was dealing with here. So many times throughout my years of school, my mother had reminded me not to rush, not to give my work “a lick and a promise.” Eventually, I’d internalized the message and gone all-out nerd on my own.

  “Well, then we better not waste another second. Come on.” He started walking into the library, and I followed. “You good to set up on the fourth floor, somewhere food’s allowed?” He looked back at me. “I brought goodies.” He held up another paper bag, like the one he’d handed off to his friends, and I caught a whiff of something criminally sweet.

  As we swiped our IDs to enter the library, I wondered how I was going to focus on my schoolwork with this dazzling representative of the male species sharing a table with me. I had tried to make the responsible choice by suggesting a library date, but I would probably have to redo any assignment I attempted to complete while we were together. Still, I was thinking the extra study time would be worth it if it meant I got to drink in Wesley’s broad shoulders and sculpted profile for a while, not to mention whatever sweet treats he was toting.

  We chose a nearly empty room on the fourth floor. There were two girls quietly discussing some sort of 3-D architectural model at the table closest to the entrance, so we maneuvered to the back of the room, and I started unloading my textbooks. No reason not to at least pretend I would be getting work done. Wesley picked up the first book I laid on the table and barked out a laugh.

  “Science and Technology Studies? For real? I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type.”

  I bristled at his words, thinking perhaps he hadn’t shown his true colors during our adventure the night before, that maybe he was actually just another sexist schmuck. As a woman interested in the sciences, I encountered more assholes than I would have expected, so my guard was always up.

  “Why, because I’m blond?” I snipped. “Or too cute to have a brain?”

  “None of the above,” he answered, as I rooted for him to disabuse me of my negative suspicion. “First of all”—he grinned as he pulled out a chair and dropped into the seat—“you’re a lot more than cute.” Matching dimples appeared like parentheses on his cheeks, and I wondered why I hadn’t focused on their hypnotic effect sooner. “And second of all, no, it’s just that you were so adamant last night about your inability to bake, and seeing as how baking is just simple science, I guess I assumed you weren’t a science person.”

  “Baking is not simple,” I retorted, relieved that he hadn’t been thinking girls were too dim-witted for science. I opened my laptop and plugged the cord into the outlet on the table.

  “Sure it is.” He smiled again as he pulled a cardboard container out of the paper bag he’d brought. The scent of sugar and chocolate filled my airways, pulling me toward whatever was inside that mystery box. “See, to make these churros,” he began as he opened the box, “I just engineered a series of calculated chemical reactions between water, sugar, some flour, and oil.” He shrugged and lifted one of the pastries out of the container. As he passed it to me, bits of granulated sugar fell like confetti onto the table between us.

  Faithless as I was that scientists should automatically be capable bakers, I accepted the churro, which I was surprised to feel was still warm. Stickiness seeped onto my fingers as I studied the pastry’s perfectly symmetrical piping lines. “I’m sorry, you just expertly whipped up some churros in your spare time? I call bullshit. This is a far cry from baking simple cookies.” I took a bite and was delighted to discover that the churro was filled with a rich hazelnut chocolate, which I was sure now lingered in an unflattering display on my lips.

  Wesley reached back into the bag and handed me a napkin. “No, I work at a Spanish restaurant on the Upper West Side. Not usually on Wednesdays, but they needed fill-in help for an hour tonight. Thought you might like to sample the merchandise.”

  “So, you’re saying that in addition to the cookie place and the construction stuff, you also work at a restaurant? How many jobs do you have? Are you even really a college student?”

  “Only the jobs you listed. Except you forgot the RA gig. I’m very efficient with my time.” He shrugged. “Also, I need the hours in commercial kitchens to get into CIA next year.”

  “CIA? Like, international spies CIA?” I was starting to think this guy was really full of it, but that didn’t stop me from taking another bite of the sugary churro.

  “CIA is the Culinary Institute of America.” He reached into his backpack and dug around for a moment before pulling out a rumpled pamphlet. “Located in picturesque upstate New York.” He passed the little brochure over to me. “I need more back-of-the-house experience for admission.”

  “Wow.” I savored yet another bite of the oozing confection and then wiped the paper napkin across my chin. Wesley was studying me intently, like my reaction to what he’d said was of critical importance.

  “Wow,” I repeated myself. “I wouldn’t have pegged you as the type.”

  Now it was Wesley who sounded defensive. “Why, because a Columbia grad is meant to work at an investment bank or a corporate law firm? I’m failing to fulfill my destiny?”

  “No.” I laughed. “Because you’re too cute to have a brain. No need to have such useful skills inside that pretty head of yours.” I polished off the churro and wiped my hands together with a flourish.

  This time, Wesley laughed. “Oh, I have skills,” he said suggestively. “Trust me, I have skills.”

  He kept his eyes focused on me, and I felt my cheeks warming up, crimson on the rise. I stared back, feeling as though precious little oxygen was reaching my brain. He leaned across the table, bringing his face closer to mine. I was struck by the intensity of his eyes, the way the green of the iris appeared to be outlined in black, the pupils surrounded by a green so light it was almost yellow. I leaned forward too, thinking that he was about to kiss me and wondering why I was willing to let that happen when we had only begun our evening, when we were in a public place, when I had full-on c
hocolate-churro breath.

  He reached his hand toward my face, and I made no effort to pull away. But then he was wiping at my cheek, gently yet with purpose.

  “Sorry, a few crumbs went rogue,” he explained as he flicked a grain of crystallized sugar off me.

  I exhaled a shaky breath and leaned away, wiping at the same spot he had just touched, checking to ensure there were no lingering particles, trying to soak up a little extra of his touch.

  “Sorry to bust your chops.” He settled back into his seat and tossed the CIA pamphlet back into his backpack. “People give me a hard time, my parents especially, so I’m kind of uptight about it.”

  “Why?” I was surprised that anyone would knock the amazing talent he so clearly possessed. “Everyone’s jealous that you’re a ninja in the kitchen?”

  “Hardly.” He let out a huff of air, and for the first time since I’d met him, I saw the corners of his mouth turn down. “It’s only my parents who get to me. I’m not living up to their fantasy. You know, graduate from an Ivy, proceed to Wall Street, marry a nice Jewish girl, and spend the rest of my life at a boring job, selling my soul to earn more money than my father before me.”

  “That sounds pretty terrible. Except the part about the nice Jewish girl,” I joked, batting my eyelashes at him. “Also, you’ve totally got that whole Ivy League part locked in, so at least there’s that.”

  “I guess.” He leaned back in his chair, tipping it onto its two hind legs. “It’s just frustrating that they don’t respect it, that they keep trying to bribe me into looking at law school or business school.”

  “Bribe you?”

  “Yup.” Wesley righted the chair, reached back into his bag, and retrieved a plastic water bottle. He held it out in offer; I shook my head, and he took a sip himself before continuing. “They’re happy to pay for grad school, provided it’s not culinary school. I’m not playing their game, though. I’m just going to pay for it myself.”

  The fact that he had so many jobs now made sense. “I think it’s pretty commendable that you’re working hard to pursue your passion. If you love it, you’ll be great at it, and eventually your parents will realize they were wrong.”

  “Maybe.” He shrugged. He was about to say something else, but my phone started chirping from my coat pocket on the chair beside me. I hurried to silence it so I wouldn’t get busted for noise by one of the Butler librarians.

  “Do you need to get that?” Wesley asked.

  My dad’s number still flashed on the screen. “Nah, it’s fine.” Whatever additional point my father was now hoping to argue with me, I was done for the day. I put the phone down on the table and grabbed my Science and Technology textbook back from Wesley’s side of the table.

  “Now, are we studying or what?” I pointed my pencil at him. “I told you, I’m not going to let you turn me into a slacker.”

  My phone vibrated on the table, and I saw a text from my father. I clicked on it and stood up in a panic as I read.

  Dad: Heading to Sloan K w mom. Not sure what’s wrong. Meet us there.

  “Shit. I have to go.” I started stuffing my books into my bag.

  “What? Why?” Wesley asked, concern taking over his features as he pushed out his chair to stand, too.

  I glanced back down at my phone as I reached for my coat. I didn’t like telling people about my mother’s condition. I didn’t enjoy the pitying looks, the furrowed eyebrows and awkward platitudes. Also, I was superstitious about it, like if I mentioned it less, it was somehow less real, less certain. Even so, I had to explain my abrupt departure somehow, and there was no time to come up with something creative.

  “It’s my mom. She’s sick. I have to meet my father at the hospital.”

  “Okay, let’s go,” he said, packing his own bag. “I’ll get us a cab.”

  “No, just me. I’ve got this on my own, but thanks.”

  Wesley narrowed his eyes at me, ready to argue, but I wasn’t having it. “Seriously, I’m good,” I told him, as I zipped up my coat. As sorry as I was to cut our date short, I was hardly prepared to drag my flirty new crush out for a hot night cruising the oncology ward. “I don’t even know what’s wrong, and honestly, you’ll just be a distraction that I don’t need right now. I just need to be with my family.” I spoke quickly, with determination.

  “Okay, I get it.” He nodded slightly as he threw his bag over his shoulder. “But at least let me put you in a cab.” He took my hand and started pulling me toward the elevator.

  I’d like to say I was so focused on my mother that the heat of his hand against mine didn’t send shivers through my body, that I didn’t want to melt into him.

  As we hurried toward the elevator, I realized there was some relief to having another person in my corner, that this extra bit of support mattered. I was tired of fighting my father, of putting on a brave face for my mom, of chasing after my brother.

  NEARLY AN HOUR later, I was waiting in a fabric-covered chair in the hospital lobby, wondering how much longer it would be before my mother and father arrived from New Jersey. I sat under the harsh fluorescent lighting, pondering how I could at once be totally freaking out and also bored stiff. As I watched people coming and going, I was surprised by how many of the visitors at the hospital looked happy, like they were checking in for restaurant reservations instead of asking the receptionist where their half-dead friends and family members could be found.

  My phone vibrated, and I looked down to see a new message.

  Wesley: Update me when you know something?

  I wondered if he really wanted to hear back or was just being polite. Before I could make up my mind, my dad rushed into the lobby through the automatic glass doors.

  “Mer!” He huffed my name in exasperation as he approached me, his weathered features scrunched with tension. “God, I’ve been running circles around this hospital looking for you. Why didn’t you think to go up to Mom’s ward?” There was a bite to his words, like I was just one more hassle.

  “Jesus, Dad. Text much?” I held up my phone. “You could have found me right away.”

  He stared back at me, silent, waiting for me to fall in line. When I didn’t back down, didn’t apologize for cop-ping the attitude he deserved, he turned away and started walking toward the stairwell in the center of the lobby.

  “Come on,” he grumbled over his shoulder. “I’ll take you to her. We came in a different entrance.”

  He was speed-walking back toward wherever my mother was, and I found myself wishing that the urgency was out of concern for his wife rather than his own pressing desire to get out of the hospital, out of the marriage, out of the family. Did I mention he was planning to move to LA after my mom recovered? It was as though he couldn’t get far enough away from us.

  When we reached my mother’s room, she was already settled in a bed with wires protruding from her arm and a faraway look on her pasty face. Her headscarf was askew, and I could see blue veins running through the side of her bald scalp. She looked so small and frail in the bed. She looked like a dying woman, really, and I had to swallow quickly to prevent the tears that were stirring behind my eyes from spilling forth. A nurse was crouched over her, fiddling with a catheter bag that rested on the floor.

  My mother appeared to be sleeping with her eyes open, but as I walked into the room, she spoke. “Honey,” she rasped in a near whisper.

  I wanted to surrender to my despair and start bawling, but I forced myself to keep it together. She was struggling enough as it was. I didn’t need to make things worse by breaking down in front of her, letting her worry about me even more than she already was. I forced myself to put on my shallow face, not to acknowledge what I was really feeling, not to let my brain go there. I would act lighthearted and oblivious, because that was the role I so often played in my family, and it would be easier for my mother to view me that way. I wouldn’t show how devastated I was for both of us, for everything we had lost already and everything else we stood to lose.


  “Come,” she said, and I saw her fingers twitch against the bedsheet. I knew she was trying to reach out for me and didn’t even have the energy to lift her arm.

  “Sweetie.” The nurse caught my attention as she put her large ebony hand on my shoulder. “I’m sorry, but you’ll have to wait in the hall. Your mom’s getting a transfusion. She’s going to be much better in a couple of hours—you’ll see. Fresh blood is an amazing thing, like blowing up a balloon.” She put a little pressure on my shoulder, pushing me toward the door. “The sooner we get started, though . . .”

  I nodded and held up a finger, signaling that I just needed one second. I went to my mom and gave her cheek a quick kiss, forcing a whimsical smile onto my face despite the waxiness of her skin, its coolness against my lips.

  “See you in a few, Mom.” I tried to sound breezy as I walked out into the hallway, where I then paced in front of the closed door until a blond-haired desk nurse looked up and raised her eyebrows at me.

  NEARLY TWO HOURS later, one of the nurses finally came to the lounge to get my father, who had been busily typing on a tablet for the entire time we’d been waiting.

  “She’s all finished,” the older woman said. It was the same one who had gently booted me out of the room earlier. “Come, sweetie.” She turned to me with an encouraging smile. “I’m sure you’ll be pleased to see how much better she looks already.”

  It turned out that the nurse was right. As I followed them into my mother’s room, I saw that she was sitting up in bed and her skin tone had returned to its former hue. She hardly had a healthy glow illuminating her features, but she didn’t look like a rotted onion anymore, either.

  “Wow, I wish I could get one of those every day,” she joked, her eyes crinkling slightly. I could see she was still weak, but she at least had the energy to pretend otherwise.