That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “He’s got some stuff going on these days,” she says. “You guys should talk.” She picks up a large coffee urn and lumbers with it out toward the gymnasium, leaving me to wonder what her comments mean.

  AN HOUR AND forty-five minutes later, the food is prepped and the leftovers from Wesley’s restaurant are again waiting on the table on the other side of the room. I pull Aaron from where he has been listening to another volunteer, an older woman named Marlene, as she complains about her nursing job at Montefiore. He is giving her suggestions about how to stand up to the doctors who she seems to believe are taking advantage of her.

  “What about the nurses taking advantage of kind young doctors?” I whisper as I pull him away to help me staff the lasagna station. I explain on the way over about how we aren’t supposed to give anyone seconds until everyone in the line has had their first serving.

  “Except kids, right?” he asks.

  I shake my head, remembering the first time I had to internalize that bit of soup kitchen procedure. Telling a malnourished six-year-old that she can’t have a second slice of bread feels almost impossible when you yourself have grown up with the luxury of a perpetually full belly.

  Aaron starts to say something, but Katie Sue announces that she is opening the doors. Within seconds, Aaron and I are both busy ladling out green beans and lasagna, engaging in small talk with women and men of varying ages and nationalities as they make their way down the line.

  A few minutes into the food service, I catch a certain movement by the door at the far side of the gym and I know he’s here. I glance up casually, somehow certain that I will see Wesley entering the room. When my eyes find him, the first thing I notice is that he is wearing a gray Henley shirt, and I am hit by a mystifying wave of gratitude. He still favors Henleys—something is still the same. He is carrying a black bag that looks almost like it contains a machine gun, but I know it’s a carrying case for his knives. Maybe he had been teaching knife skills in class today. As he walks farther into the gym, his eyes scan the room, as though he is looking for something. For someone. My eyes dart to Aaron, who is slicing additional rows of the enormous lasagna, and then back to Wesley. His head finally turns, and his eyes settle on me. A current of electricity passes between us, undeniable, even across the length of the gym. My breath catches, and he is all I can see as he stops walking and just looks back at me.

  “Okay, hand me that spatula,” Aaron says, reaching out for it.

  The spell is broken. I pass Aaron the tool, and when I look back at Wesley, he, too, is looking at Aaron. His eyes shift back to me, and he tips his chin up in a light greeting before making his way toward the kitchen.

  For the remainder of the meal, I stand beside Aaron, serving beans and glancing at the kitchen door, waiting to see Wesley emerge. The minutes pass, but he doesn’t come back out. As the final trays are emptied, Katie Sue directs us to start cleaning up, and I determine that Wesley must have left again, just like last week. I try to squelch the disappointment I feel as I remind myself that if I want to continue coming to this soup kitchen, I need to get used to this, to simply seeing Wesley in passing. Maybe we’ll talk one day, and maybe we won’t. I have to learn not to care.

  The other volunteers are collecting the large aluminum trays that had held the food, and I follow their lead. A few patrons still linger at the long rectangular tables in the gym, savoring their meals, putting off their return to the cold winter air outside. As we finish clearing, Garth and Aaron begin folding down the table legs and carrying the tables to the storeroom at the back of the gym.

  I walk my large platters into the kitchen, using my elbow to push open the swinging door. I scan the kitchen for Wesley in spite of myself and find myself disappointed yet again. Marlene the nurse and another woman are at the large sink basins, hosing down the greasy trays, and I make my way toward them with my stack.

  The door to the street opens, and then Wesley is there, carrying a cardboard box. He doesn’t notice me as he makes his way toward the back of the kitchen and puts his box down next to a hulking turkey breast. He doesn’t hear my heart pounding in my chest. Judging by the bags of bread protruding from the box he was carrying, I deduce that he is going to be making sandwiches. He doesn’t look up as he puts on latex gloves and begins slicing the turkey breast, so I take the opportunity to study his profile.

  For the most part, he looks the same, just older. A little thinner than he was a few years ago, I think. His golden hair is still cut close to his head, flipped up at the front just enough to make you wonder if there’s gel holding it in place. I see that he still wears his grandfather’s gold necklace with the Jewish star. It dangles loosely from his neck as he leans over the turkey, slicing mechanically, over and over.

  He must feel my eyes on him because he looks up and our gazes connect again. I see no option but to walk over.

  “Hey,” I say as I approach.

  “Hey,” he responds, putting his knife down on the counter. He opens and closes the fist that was holding it, wincing just a little as he does. I can’t tell whether it’s the hand or my presence that’s causing him pain.

  “Katie Sue told me about the program you started. It sounds amazing. Really great.” Now I want to wince, annoyed by how stilted I sound, how awkward I’m making this.

  “Yeah, thanks,” he says, reticent as he regards me.

  “And the restaurant,” I add, trying to be upbeat. “I’m so happy everything worked out for you.”

  “Not everything,” he says, looking down at me. He moves his hand off the counter, and for a split second I think he’s reaching out for me, but he just starts clenching and unclenching his fist again, like it’s stiff and he’s doing some sort of exercise.

  “Hey.” Aaron’s voice is strong as he approaches from behind me. I didn’t even hear the door to the kitchen open, and I’d be lying if I said I don’t feel like I’ve been busted. Aaron wraps an arm around my waist possessively, and I resist the urge to shrug him off, to step closer to Wesley.

  “You remember Wesley from the restaurant, right?” I ask Aaron, amazed that I am able to sound so calm, gracious, even.

  “Of course,” Aaron says. He starts reaching out to shake hands but then notices Wesley’s rubber gloves and puts his hand back on me. “Mer told me about the work-place-readiness program. It sounds really terrific.”

  “Thanks,” Wesley says. “It’s been good.” His eyes rove over Aaron, and I can see he’s sizing him up—the oversize muscles, the chiseled jaw. I feel proud for a moment to let Wesley see the man who has chosen me, chosen to stay with me—an athlete, a doctor. But then I feel petty, ashamed to have reduced my current fiancé to bullet points.

  “I’ll let you guys catch up,” Aaron says. “Katie Sue seems to have sixteen more tasks for me out there.” He squeezes my arm lightly as he gives Wesley a little nod and turns back toward the gym.

  “Katie Sue said you have a lot going on. She seemed to think you might want to tell me about it . . .” I remember what she said earlier and hope I haven’t overstepped.

  A look of anger flashes across Wesley’s face, but it’s gone so quickly, I’m not sure I read it right.

  “Or not,” I add. “I was just taking my cues from her, but you . . . whatever.” I don’t know how to interact with this quiet, subdued version of Wesley. I know him as boisterous and energetic. This guy just seems watchful and sad, the way he was after his parents died and for the last few days of our relationship. I wonder if he’s been like this the whole time we’ve been apart. It hurts my heart to even consider that possibility. All this time, I’ve pictured Wesley shining his light in other places, on other ideas, other women. Never have I considered the possibility that he hasn’t been shining his light at all.

  “No, I do. It’s just”—he looks around the kitchen, like he doesn’t want anyone else to hear—“there’s been a lot of pity lately, which I don’t need, so don’t go there when I tell you, okay?”

  “O . . . kay . .
.” I say it slowly, wondering what direction we are headed in.

  “No, I know how you get, but this isn’t your problem to solve, okay?”

  “Okay,” I say again, “but what is it? You’re making me nervous.” Although now that he’s actually talking to me, I feel like I’m finding solid ground.

  “I have ALS.” He glances around the kitchen, as if to confirm that no one else has heard, and then looks back down at me.

  I feel myself blinking rapidly in confusion. “You . . . Wait, you what?”

  “I was diagnosed a few months ago. I only just told Katie Sue recently, so I guess she’s still processing.” His voice contains mild dismay, but he sounds only casually annoyed, too relaxed for what I think he’s trying to tell me.

  “ALS? You don’t mean . . . not like Lou Gehrig’s disease?” I look at him from head to toe, now feeling free to study him openly. I regard him as if he can’t possibly be correct in what he’s declared.

  “Yeah, no, exactly like Lou Gehrig’s disease.” He picks up the knife and starts slicing turkey again, like there’s nothing more to discuss.

  I don’t know a ton about the disease, but I’ve seen that movie about Stephen Hawking, and there is definitely, definitely more to say.

  “But you can live a long time with that now, right?”

  I see a fondness creep into Wesley’s features for the first time since before we broke up. The hard green shell is cracked, and there’s a warmth in the lines beside his eyes.

  “You’re thinking of the Stephen Hawking movie.”

  And now I remember that I wanted to see that movie when it first came out, just a month or two before Wesley and I fell apart. We never actually made it, and I watched it on my own months later. I don’t answer as I continue trying to process what he’s telling me.

  “It’s started progressing for me already. I am not the next Stephen Hawking,” he tells me gently, as though it’s going to be roughest for me. And maybe he’s right. Maybe it is. Maybe, even though I’ve been planning to marry Aaron, I always thought the future might hold something for Wesley and me at some point. And even after this blow, here I am, wondering if somehow it still can.

  “So, what are you saying?” I ask, not caring that I’m starting to sound a little angry, accusatory. “Are you telling me that you’re dying?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.” He says it so matter-of-factly that I feel like I’ve been slapped.

  “I don’t understand,” I argue. “How? Aren’t you too young?”

  He shrugs and puts the knife down on the counter, clenching his fist again.

  “Is that what’s going on with your hand?” I ask as I watch him. “It hurts?”

  “No.” He shakes his head. “No pain. Just weak.”

  “So, what is the prognosis? How long do you have?” I ask, trying to speak more gently as I think about his restaurant, which is still brand-new, and his whole life, which he’s only just brought back to New York.

  “No one knows. Average is two to five years. Maybe longer since I’m young to be diagnosed. Maybe shorter because I’ve been ignoring symptoms for years.”

  Years. My brain is working overtime. Did I see signs? I have a flash, a memory from the morning of his parents’ funeral, how he fumbled over and over again while buttoning his shirt. I thought it was grief at the time. Maybe it was.

  I step forward to hug him but stop myself when I remember we are basically strangers now. I wonder if he is still the man I knew at all.

  “I’m so sorry, Wes,” I say, nearly whispering, as a harsh pressure builds behind my eyes.

  “I know,” he says, his words buttery, like he still cares about me. “Looks like you dodged a bullet, though, huh?” He laughs lightly.

  “Hard to say.” I shrug, trying to match his tone. “How’s your life insurance policy?”

  The corner of his lip ticks up, and I’m suddenly struck by a grief so fierce it’s as though I’ve been buried by the emotion, by my yearning for him and for what I thought we were going to have. I want to throw myself at him, to attach myself to him like a leech and suck up every last moment he has before this awful disease takes him. I have a vision of myself as his Florence Nightingale, sacrificing everything to care for him in his final days.

  His shoulders dip, as though he, too, is sorry, and I know in that moment that he wishes things had been different. For both of us.

  The kitchen door swings open, and Garth and Aaron enter behind us, laughing, joking about coffee rinds, for some reason. I step back from Wesley and grab my coat from where I left it, lying on a pile of boxes in the corner.

  “I guess we should get going,” I say to the room, my eyes darting to Wesley. I pick up Aaron’s coat, too.

  “Thanks,” Aaron says as he walks over and takes his coat from my hands. He looks over at Wesley. “Nice to see you, man,” he says affably, never the type to be petty.

  “You, too,” Wesley answers, looking at me, and I have the sense that he’s the only one in the room who can see me at all.

  Chapter Twelve

  January 2013

  The day after the funeral, I walked cautiously through the front door of Wesley’s parents’ house. Obviously, his outburst the day before had been the result of his grief, and I understood that I needed to be strong for him, to forgive any awful accusations or unwarranted vitriol that he threw my way. Daphne had tried to talk me down as I’d cried the previous night about the loathing that had swelled over the edge of Wesley’s every harsh word. With her support and a few choice words from my mother about the importance of showing up for people, I’d eventually convinced myself that my presence would be a comfort to him. So I went back, even though he had asked me to stay away.

  When I arrived just after lunchtime, the stately colonial home was still brimming with company. This was only day two of the seven-day shiva. I wandered inside, noticing the exorbitant amount of food displayed on the dining room table—cookies and bagels, large combinations of fruit speared on kebabs, stabbed into foam bases to look like floral bouquets—as if mass quantities of artfully arranged comestibles could somehow alleviate heartache. People were speaking in hushed voices, picking at linzer cookies and wiping teary eyes. Most of these people were unfamiliar to me, work associates of Wesley’s parents, neighborhood friends and acquaintances from long ago who had come by to pay their respects. There were a few distant relatives whom I vaguely recognized. An older woman whom I couldn’t place stopped me and went in for a hug.

  “Oh, dear,” she said as she squeezed me, enveloping me in the thick, flowery scent she wore. “I’m so sorry, sweetie. They would have been excellent in-laws.”

  “Thank you,” I responded in a hushed voice, feeling my own sorrow surfacing, my disappointment at the loss of two people I had thought would become my family. Wesley had always been quick to point out their flaws, but I had found a comfort in the idea of two extra parents for myself, both of them predictable, reliable people. Until now.

  I inhaled a sharp breath and held it, a technique I had learned during college for tamping down unwanted emotions, and I scanned the room for Wesley. I finally caught sight of him, sitting on one of those low shiva chairs, a foreshortened leather seat that hovered just a few inches above the floor. His legs were folded awkwardly in front of the little chair, and he was deep in conversation with a man who looked to be about the same age as his father. His deceased father, I reminded myself with a shudder.

  For the first time since he’d heard the news, Wesley actually looked alert, like he was invested in whatever they were discussing. As I approached and he caught sight of me, he suddenly sat up straighter and his eyes flashed with purpose. He said something quietly to the man beside him and then rose to meet me, walking to where I stood.

  “Come with me,” he said, starting toward the wide stairwell in the center of the house. I followed, relieved that he seemed to be welcoming me back into the fold.

  We went into his childhood bedroom, the winter sunshine sh
arp as it pushed through the windows, the luminosity at odds with the cold air in the room. As he closed the door and turned toward me, I saw the set of his jaw, the vein pulsing in his neck, and I realized I had read him all wrong.

  “Everyone was asking where you were yesterday.” A reprimand, accusatory.

  “You told me to leave. I did what you asked.” I immediately regretted my defensive tone, knowing I had struck the wrong chord. I couldn’t find my footing with this angry, sallow version of Wesley.

  “Well, maybe I don’t know what the fuck I want right now. Did you think of that?” He pounded his fist twice against the wooden footboard of his old sleigh bed, like he was still busy parsing his thoughts.

  “Well, I’m back now,” I said, walking toward him, reaching for his hand before he started using any real force on his childhood furniture.

  I felt him relax a little at the physical contact, like he remembered who he was, or who we were. He pulled me closer and kissed the top of my head. “That was my uncle Marty I was talking to,” he told me.

  I nodded, reluctant to break the calm by saying something that might set him off again. I leaned into the smooth simplicity of his white dress shirt, the scent of his deodorant strong and reassuring. We were quiet for a moment—taking each other in, I thought.

  Wesley finally broke the silence. “I’m going to stay with him for . . . I’m not sure how long. A while.”

  “Who?”

  “Marty,” he said again, stepping away from me, the air suddenly cool again, biting. I wondered if anyone had turned the heat on upstairs, if he had slept in this cold air the night before, alone.

  “Your uncle Marty? As in your mom’s brother Marty? England Marty? What do you mean?”

  “Well, it’s not like we’re still getting married in three weeks. I can’t go dance and celebrate at a party right after I put my parents in the ground. Especially not when it was our fucking wedding plans that put them there. Jesus!” His hands shot up to his head, his fists clenching as though he wanted to rip his hair from the roots.