That's Not a Thing

by Jacqueline Friedland

  “Wesley remembers everyone. He’ll know who you are.” I motion that we should walk back toward his room. If not from seeing her before surgery, he’ll know her name from all the times I complained to him about my intolerable office mate. I try not to laugh thinking what a kick he will get out of seeing her transformed into Nicola the Beneficent.

  “Do you have a new job lined up yet? Are you leaving law?” she asks, her voice hushed as we pass by other hospital rooms, and she actually sounds curious, not snarky.

  “I’m still thinking public interest.” I don’t mention the interview I had last week at the Tri-State International Advocacy Group or the fact that I still haven’t heard from them. “I’m trying to see what’s out there.”

  She nods, but I can tell her focus has shifted already. “Can we see if he’s awake? I don’t have that long.” She pulls a phone from the pocket of her blazer and checks the time.

  When we return to the room, Wesley is still sleeping, his head turned toward us on the pillow. I think it’s best for a man in his condition to get the rest he needs, so I don’t disturb him. I look at Nicola and raise my eyebrows, as if to say there’s nothing I can do to facilitate her visit. She raises her eyebrows right back at me, and I don’t know whether she is mocking me or trying to indicate that she agrees with me, that we’re a team. Then she reaches into her cavernous bag again, and this time she extracts a small gold box that looks to be Godiva chocolate. She leans over and whispers in my ear, “Tell him I left these.” She hands me the box, which is so small that it must contain only two chocolates, at best, and sashays out of the room. Her spicy perfume lingers after her departure, and I hope that I will again become desensitized to the thick, sweet aroma, like I did day after day in our office.

  I resume my post in the green synthetic recliner and wonder what Nicola’s angle is here. I might think she was putting the moves on Wesley, but for the fact that he’s a condemned man and she knows it. Maybe she really meant what she said, that she’s had some sort of epiphany, is trying to be a better person. Well, I hope so.

  Opening my computer back up, I nearly jump when I see an email waiting from the Tri-State International Advocacy Group, subject heading: Your Application. I glance again at Wesley, nervous to open the message on my own, wanting reinforcements, but he hasn’t moved since I’ve been back in the room. After a few more seconds staring at the screen, I berate myself for my inaction and click the link. Holding my breath, I read:

  Dear Ms. Altman,

  Thank you for meeting with us last Wednesday. We are delighted to offer you a position as an associate at The Tri-State International Advocacy Group with a starting date of August 7, 2017. Jeanine Hall, head of Human Resources, will contact you to take care of logistics. We look forward to having you onboard.

  Best,

  Joe Reiser, Chief Legal Counsel

  The Tri-State International Advocacy Group

  I let out a triumphant yelp as I read the email and then clamp my hand over my mouth, hoping I haven’t disturbed Wesley’s slumber. I release a breath when I see that his eyes are still closed, and then I read the email two more times, amazed that something positive is actually unfolding for me.

  “What happened?”

  I look back up to see Wesley staring at me.

  “Shit. I woke you.”

  “Maybe,” he rasps with a halfhearted smirk. Recently, everything he does seems only halfhearted. “It’s hard to sleep with all the sunlight coming out of that ridiculous grin on your face. What’s on that computer?” He swallows hard, twice, and I can tell he wants to say more, that he’s adjusting something inside himself. He gets himself back in gear and adds, “You finally start perusing Internet porn?”

  “Shut up.” If he weren’t in such a fragile state, I would have thrown a pillow at him. “No, you perv. I got the job!” I squeak a little in my excitement.

  “I knew you would. Congrats, babe.”

  “Oh, you just missed a visitor. Nicola Shore was here to see you.” I reach for the windowsill where I left the chocolates and shake the box for him to see.

  “Ha. She’s probably here for her fee.”

  “Fee?”

  “Yeah.” He stops talking, and I know he’s seeking the energy to continue, so I wait. “Before the surgery,” he finally continues, “I was only with them for a second, but all she could talk about was how I should make a will with Ian.”

  “You made a will with Ian?” I force my brain away from the pain of that thought, the constant talk of Wesley’s imminent death. Instead, I focus on my competitive streak. “I could have made a will for you. For free, you know.”

  “Nah.” He waves a hand in the air dismissively and then lets it flop back to the bed, as if he’s forgotten how to control it. “I did that months ago. Totally done.” His eyes close again.

  He seems to be drifting off to sleep once more, so I stay quiet, but then he opens his eyes again. “Whatever’s left after I pay for my care is going to Community Kitchen. For the job training program to continue.”

  Before I have time to reflect on his largesse, he changes the subject. “Any word from Aaron?”

  I shake my head, knowing that if I try to talk, I might start crying again. I’ve been in touch with Mitch and Gladys. I know that she’s doing all right, that Aaron has insisted on taking over her care. I figure she is in good hands and that I should just let them be.

  “But at least I will be gainfully employed again.” The brightness in my voice sounds false, even to me.

  He nods his head without lifting it off the pillow, and I know he sees right through me. “He’s smarter than I am,” Wesley assures me. “He’ll come around faster than I did.”

  I try to block out Wesley’s words, knowing that false hope is the very worst kind.

  AFTER THE CONCLUSION of visiting hours and my subsequent eviction from Wesley’s room by the hospital staff, I meander to the subway station, heading back toward my apartment. Well, not my apartment—Aaron’s apartment. With Wesley planning to move directly to Massachusetts after his release from the hospital, it’s incumbent upon me to find a new apartment and give Aaron back his living space. Now that I have a position lined up at the TSIAG, I have a sense of what my new salary will be and what kind of (teeny-tiny) apartment I can afford. I am actually contemplating going to New Jersey and, in the ultimate act of sticking my tail between my legs, living with my parents for a while. I’m sure my mom would be thrilled, and maybe it would be the opportunity we need to really repair our relationship, get back to the place we inhabited together before the cancer, before Wesley, and the plane crash, and the canceled wedding, and the next canceled wedding. I’m exhausted just thinking about all the drama we have attempted to weather together.

  I emerge from the subway station, climbing the steps into the dusky summer twilight that is bathing Park Avenue South in an ethereal purple glow. The storefronts and office buildings glimmer as if the lighting has been artificially created, like a movie set. As I make my way toward the loft, I consider stopping at the bodega across from our building to pick up Wonder bread and peanut butter for dinner, but when I round the corner onto Twenty-first Street, I see Aaron’s large frame halfway down the block. He is leaning against the apartment building, one foot up and flat against the gray stone wall, reading something on his phone, as though he’s waiting for something, for someone. I wonder if he is waiting for me, but then I realize he must want something from the apartment. He’s probably trying to figure out how to get up there without seeing me. If he doesn’t want to see me, I think I should respect his wishes. I owe him at least that. So I quickly turn around and head back in the direction I just came from. I can get ramen for dinner instead, sit and eat my noodle bowl while Aaron does whatever he needs to do. I wonder if I should text him to let him know he can go up, but I flinch thinking about how he will likely bristle at the unsolicited contact.

  I hear a thumping noise approaching, and I move over to the right so that the jogge
r behind me can pass. But when I turn my head, I see that it’s Aaron, not a jogger, who is next to me, slowing. I don’t understand why he’s come after me when I was so careful not to impose my presence on him.

  I stop. He stops.

  “Why’d you turn around? I’ve been waiting for you.” He squints, apparently confused, but I feel like I have a premium on confusion at the moment.

  “Waiting for me?”

  “Yeah, for the past two hours.” His eyes sweep over me from head to toe, and I’m sorry I didn’t choose to wear something more flattering than my ripped cargo shorts to the hospital today. He takes a step closer to me, crowding my space, stealing my air. His hand goes to my hair, pushing a stray strand behind my ear, and I am surprised by the touch, electrified against my will. I can feel his breath on my cheek as he adds, “Where were you?”

  I don’t want to tell him that I’ve been with Wesley. I don’t want to see the look of disdain reappear on his face. Especially not now, when he’s looking at me with eyes that are decidedly kind—affectionate, even. But I’m not lying to this man, not anymore.

  “I was with Wesley. At the hospital.” I look up at him, waiting to see irritation, resentment, readying myself for him to step back from me.

  He nods, and his expression doesn’t change. “Good. I’m glad he’s not alone. When he fell last week, I realized what it meant that he called me after he couldn’t reach you, that he didn’t have anyone else to call.”

  I’m not sure whether he’s telling me that he understands why I have been committed to helping Wesley or if he’s saying something else.

  “He’s starting to have people. He has a cousin. She’s going with him to Massachusetts. There’s a facility there where he’s going right after he gets discharged. I’m getting out of the apartment, too—don’t worry,” I hasten to add. “I just need another couple of days to pack up.”

  Aaron nods, quiet, contemplative. A breeze rustles around us, enveloping us, as if we’re inside our own private vortex in the middle of the city street. Pedestrians continue to make their way around us, as though they don’t even see us, as though the breeze has made us invisible.

  “Good,” he says quietly, running a hand tenderly over my hair, as if to remember it, as if to say good-bye. The pieces that he tucked behind my ear comes loose again in the warm wind. “If that’s what you want.”

  I nod, unsure what else to say, afraid that telling him it’s not what I want, that uttering any words at all, will lead me to cry again. I just shake my head lightly, curl my lips in toward each other.

  Then his face changes, brightens. “No, not good. That’s not what I came here to say at all.” He sounds firm, like I shouldn’t need so long to vacate the apartment, like he was here waiting to tell me he wants the return of his space forthwith.

  “I can probably . . . I can try to get out by the end of the day tomorrow, but nothing is packed yet.” I mentally catalog how much I have in the apartment. It’s mainly clothing and personal items, not furniture or other large pieces that would take longer to move.

  He shakes his head at me, and I brace for the impact of whatever hurtful words might follow. “I almost lost my nerve,” he starts. “For a split second, I thought maybe you were saying you were happier without me.”

  I open my mouth to ask what he means, but he holds up a hand to silence me.

  “Just hear me out for a sec?”

  It’s a request, not a demand, so I nod.

  “All the stuff with my mom—hell, I probably already knew it before. But you chose me.” He takes my hand in his, and I let him, as though I have no volition in my arm. His warmth envelops my fingers, my palm, my being, and I want to cry out at the relief of his touch, as he continues, “You had no obligation. I don’t know why it took me so many days to act on it, but I knew, as soon as I saw you in the hospital waiting room last week, that I was the one you chose. You stayed with my mother to protect me, even when the other guy needed you too.”

  As I process what Aaron seems to be saying, the background noise around us begins to dull. I notice absently that the sky has suddenly gotten much darker, that dusk has turned to night.

  “I don’t understand.” I look up at him, my eyes involuntarily traveling to his mouth, then the cleft in his chin, before shifting back to his dark eyes.

  “Clearly, you had some unresolved feelings that you needed to explore, and that was shitty.” He says it lightly, like an afterthought. “But even after I pushed you away, you kept showing up; you were there, protecting me when I needed it the most.” It sounds ludicrous that such an enormous person, someone so successful, so strong, could need protecting from anything, but I finally understand what he is trying to say. He knows that he has my heart, and unless I am completely delusional, which is of course possible, I think that he is forgiving me.

  “I’ll always protect you,” I tell him. “I will also make more mistakes. I don’t mean kissing other guys, not like that . . .” I start to stumble, wondering if Aaron is just setting himself up for more disaster by standing anywhere near me. “But it’s part of who I am, a mistake-maker,” I warn him.

  “Would you shut up?”

  I can’t read his tone, and I panic that I misinterpreted his actions, that we are not moving in the direction I thought. He may have come to complain about my behavior, to say that what I perceived as dedication felt to him closer to harping—stalking, even. But then he’s reaching toward the back of my neck, cupping my head, and leaning down to kiss me. Before our lips actually meet, I surprise myself by pulling away.

  “What are you doing? What is this supposed to be?” I ask, my every sense seemingly muddled in the present moment, as though I can’t understand anything in my world anymore. I want to melt into him, but I am suddenly worried that this isn’t for real.

  “This is supposed to be me accepting the apology you offered weeks ago, and now you accepting the apology that I am offering today.”

  His hand is still on the back of my neck, and I feel myself relaxing into his hold, into his words and the tenderness I see in his eyes. His head moves toward mine again, cautiously but with determination. He hesitates at the last second, giving me a chance to pull back, but I don’t.

  And then we’re kissing. His hands are in my hair and his body is surrounding me, right there on the street. I feel like I can’t get enough of his warmth, his strength, his promise. As he holds me, the preceding days of anguish begin to slip away, melting onto the sidewalk, trickling into the street, evaporating into the air. I feel as though I’ve been wrapped in a remedy and I’m drinking up my revival.

  Then, much too soon for my liking, Aaron pulls away and looks down at me. The familiar crick in my neck shows up as I attempt to meet his eyes from such a close vantage point, and I relish the recollection, even as a fresh memory is being made. He moves his hand from my neck to the side of my face.

  “What do you say we go put our wedding back together?” he asks.

  “Umm . . .” I hesitate pointedly, making clear there’s something I’m reluctant to tell him.

  “What?” His eyes have gone all squinty again.

  “I never actually took our wedding apart. I donated it.” I scrunch up my face, preparing for the force of his reaction.

  “You donated it?” He cocks his head. “What does that mean?”

  I nearly groan aloud, reluctant to admit what I did, but, seeing no other option, I confess.

  “I heard something on the radio a few months ago about a woman who broke her engagement at the last minute, but the reception was nonrefundable, so she invited 150 homeless people to come enjoy the food and dancing, and then she went on her honeymoon with her mom.”

  “Don’t tell me you donated our wedding to homeless people.”

  “I called Katie Sue about it, and, well, yeah.” I shove my hands into the pockets of my tan shorts as I await his response.

  “Wow.” He doesn’t look pissed, more surprised, like he’s just making sense of
it all. “So, what, are they busing 150 people out to Long Island? Is it the same date? Can we go?” He sounds excited.

  “No, I’m having the food delivered to the soup kitchen. And it was only going to be seventy-five guests, so . . .” I look back at him but can’t read his face, so I keep talking, nervously filling the silence. “And the band is going. Yes, it’s the same date, and I guess we could go, if you wanted.” I feel myself holding my breath, bracing for his anger.

  “You are a piece of work, you know that?” He steps toward me again and then backs away a couple of steps, like he’s working something out.

  My heart sinks and I flinch at his words, distressed to have disappointed him again already, but then he surprises me by hooting into the air, a battle cry. “Yes!” he shouts, answering a question that was only in his own mind, his eyes raised to the sky.

  I stare blankly at him, waiting to see if that was as positive an outburst as it sounded or if he will deal me another blow. When he looks back at me, his eyes are bright.

  “I fucking love you,” he says.

  “What?” I feel like someone has spliced together two different movie scenes, like his words and actions have nothing to do with mine.

  “So fucking much.”

  “What?” I repeat.

  “Only you.”

  He steps closer and kisses my forehead, his lips warm and dry. “Only you would take your personal misfortune and turn it into joy for other people. Only you would donate a black-tie wedding to a soup kitchen. It’s amazing. I’m, I’m . . . what’s the word?” He’s overcome with a new energy, something I can describe only as glee, and I feel myself starting to smile, too. He searches his head a moment longer, seeking the right word, and then he exclaims, “Gobsmacked! That’s how you make me feel. Gob-smacked.”

  “So, you’re not mad?” I chance.

  “No.” He leans into me again. “I’m . . . What am I? I’m . . .”