Two of a Kind

by Yona Zeldis McDonough

  Once Jordan was safely in her room, Christina began to make plans. Jordan needed to arrive early, so she would call a cab for her. She would go a little later to the theater herself; she wanted to be nearby in case Jordan needed her.

  When Jordan woke, Christina took her temperature—now down to ninety-nine—and made her drink a cup of hot tea laced with honey. “And you should eat something,” she urged. “Even something light. You need the protein.”

  “I’m too nervous to eat,” Jordan said, expression darkening.

  So Christina packed her one of those vile protein bars and a bottle of Tylenol. She noticed that Jordan kept pressing her fingers to the back of her neck. “Why are you doing that?” she asked. “Does it still hurt?”

  “I strained it doing a port de bras,” Jordan said. “I told you.”

  “Stay in touch, sweetheart,” she said as she watched Jordan get into the cab. Then she went back into the house, where a heavy blanket of unease settled over her. She found she couldn’t concentrate on anything and decided to start getting ready for the ball.

  She put on the blue dress she and Stephen had bought together back in September; why did it suddenly look so dowdy? If only she could have worn the black dress again, but she had loaned it to Stephen for a shoot. Christina’s anxiety seemed to get louder, an irritating buzz in her ears. Maybe Andy had a point, and she should have insisted Jordan see a doctor. Was it too late now? Probably, but suddenly she wanted to get there as soon as possible, limp blue dress and all. What did it matter what she wore?

  She shoved her feet into a pair of black pumps and on her way to the mirror to gauge the effect, the heel on one snapped. Oh no! Leaving the ruined shoe by the bed, she slipped out of the other one and went into the bathroom. Even though it was March, she could wear those black sandals she’d bought back in the fall; she wouldn’t be outside all that much. She reached for her compact and, in her haste, sent it careening to the floor. The tiny, round mirror cracked and shards of glass mingled with the mess of pressed powder that remained. She threw the whole thing into the garbage, wishing desperately Stephen were here to help her. But he was on that shoot; he would be at the theater, along with Misha, later.

  She put on the sandals, grabbed the faux-fur jacket Stephen had left for her, and stuffed her cosmetics into her evening purse. Then she hurried up the street to where her car was parked. Her feet, in the sandals, were freezing, but she wasn’t going back. She turned the heat on high, pulled out of the spot, and drove as fast as she dared toward the bridge. But once she got there, she was forced to wait; the traffic was horrendous. Christina stared at an SUV ahead of her, willing it to move. The SUV, along with the long line of cars in front of it, remained impervious to her wishes. No one was going anywhere.

  • • •

  Jordan felt horrible when she arrived at the theater. Her head was throbbing, her mouth felt dry, and her neck was aching. But there was no way she wasn’t going to perform tonight. A ramp led down to the stage door at the southern end of the Lincoln Center complex; she had just started down it when a voice behind her caused her to turn. It was that stupid Andy Stern, the absolute worst boyfriend her mother had ever dredged up.

  “Jordan!” he said, striding over. “I’m so glad I caught you.”

  “What are you doing here?” she said, not caring whether she sounded rude.

  “I was worried,” he said. “I wanted to make sure you were all right.”

  “I’m fine,” she said. She reached up to massage her neck, which was killing her; she was so, so tense.

  “I’m not so sure of that. Why are you rubbing your neck?”

  “It’s nothing,” she said. “Now could you please move? You’re blocking my way.” He’d planted himself right in front of her.

  “Your neck.” He acted as if he hadn’t even heard her. “That’s a bad sign. You need to see a doctor. I tell you what—let’s go inside. I can give you a quick exam and if I think you need to see someone else, I can—”

  “You!” She took a big step back. “I don’t want you to touch me—ever!”

  “Fine, then we’ll find someone else, but you have got to see someone right away.”

  Jordan felt the minutes rushing by. She needed to get inside, and get into her costume, put on her makeup. Also to sit down; she felt herself starting to sway. “If you don’t let me by, I’m going to start shouting.”

  “Jordan, you’re being stubborn. I’m here to help you—” He took her arm. He had a strong grip and though she tried, she couldn’t pull away.

  “Help!” Jordan cried. “This man is bothering me!”

  A security guard opened the stage door and poked his head out. Then he started up the ramp. “What’s going on here?” he said when he reached the spot where Jordan stood wriggling in Andy’s grasp.

  “He won’t let me go!”

  “This girl is sick and needs medical attention!”

  The guard looked at the two of them; recognition settled on his face. “Jordan,” he said. “Is this man someone you know?”

  “Yes, but he won’t let me go and I need to get inside!”

  “Excuse me, sir, but you’re going to have to release her.”

  “I told you: she needs to see a doctor.” He held tight and Jordan thrashed like a fish on the line.

  “Sir,” the guard said. “Don’t make me call the police.”

  Andy looked at Jordan and she glared right back at him. He finally released her arm and she clutched it to her chest. “Thank you, Willie,” she said to the guard. “Thank you for saving me,” she said, and hurried down the ramp without looking back.

  • • •

  Christina was still on the bridge—had it ever taken so long?—when the call from Jordan came in. “Mommy!” she cried. “Mommy, I hate him so much! I never want him in our house again. Never!”

  Mommy? Jordan had not called her Mommy in almost a decade. “Slow down,” Christina said, trying to rein in the wild horse of her own anxiety. “Tell me what happened.”

  “It’s Andy! He came to the theater, Mommy! He tried to keep me from going inside. He said he thought I shouldn’t be dancing tonight. Then he grabbed my arm and wouldn’t let go. I tried to pull away, but I couldn’t. He hurt me! I started to yell and Willie, the security guard, came over and made him go away. I loathe and despise him!”

  Christina felt herself go hot with rage. How dare he! Accosting her child, upsetting her, inserting himself into something that was none of his business—she snapped back to the immediate situation when she heard Jordan weeping softly into the phone. “Sweetheart,” she said. “Sweetheart, I want you to get a grip. I’m on my way and I’ll be there as soon as I can. In the meantime, I want you to go in the bathroom and wash up. Have a drink of water. Can you do that?” There was a strange noise, almost like a mew. “Can you?”

  “Yes, Mommy,” Jordan said meekly. “I can. I’ll see you soon.” She clicked off.

  Poor darling, thought Christina. She’s just at the end of her tether. But she would pull herself together; Christina was sure of it. The traffic started moving again and soon she was over the bridge and across Chambers Street. She was cruising along the West Side Highway when the phone buzzed again; she pounced on it, ready to dispense comfort to her daughter. But it wasn’t Jordan. It was Andy. “You!” she said. “I cannot believe what you did! Can. Not. Believe. It. What were you thinking? You are so pushy sometimes!”

  “Pushy Jew, isn’t that what you mean?”

  “I never said that—you did! But how dare you make such a scene? Who asked you to intervene—”

  “Where are you anyway?” he interrupted.

  “In my car, on my way to the theater. A place you had no business being, I might add.”

  “Forget the theater. Come to St. Luke’s Hospital.”

  “St. Luke’s? What for?”

 
“Your daughter has just been admitted. After I wasn’t able to talk any sense into her, she went into the theater, where she promptly collapsed in the dressing room. She was rushed to the ER; fortunately, I was still hanging around, so I saw the ambulance pull up and I waited. Damn good thing I did, too.” His voice was grim.

  “Maybe it’s nerves, or she’s feeling light-headed from not having eaten. I couldn’t persuade her to have any dinner; she said her stomach was unsettled and—”

  “You and your fucking denial!” he shouted. “It’s not nerves and she’s not feeling light-headed. She’s got meningitis, for God’s sake! And not only that, it’s been exacerbated by how goddamn thin she is; she’s got a pretty serious eating disorder that you haven’t wanted to deal with.” He paused, as if gathering steam for the finale. “Now get your ass up here as quickly as you can. Call when you’re outside and I’ll tell you exactly where we are. They’re still doing some tests.” And before Christina could utter another word, he abruptly ended the call.

  The time between the end of the phone call and Christina’s arrival at the hospital were the longest and most agonizing minutes in her life as a mother. Jordan has meningitis, she kept repeating to herself as she headed toward the hospital. Her daughter had meningitis and she hadn’t even known. She was a terrible mother, terrible person. If Jordan were to die—but she would not let herself go there. If she did, she would crumple right here, right now, and never make it to the hospital where Jordan lay waiting. Ignoring the tears that seemed to have materialized on her face, she drove to St. Luke’s, mouthing prayers she had not uttered in two decades—Hail Mary, full of grace. When she arrived, she left the car in a spot that had a clear No Parking sign posted. Let the city give her a ticket or tow it. She didn’t care.

  She called Andy as soon as she was inside the doors. Jordan was in the ICU; she saw Andy conferring with a white-coated doctor in the corridor. When he saw her, he introduced her to the attending physician and then took her hand. She was so grateful he was there.

  “It’s bacterial,” said the doctor, whose name tag read ZACHERY MARVIN. “We usually give penicillin and cefotaxime, but we’re seeing a lot of resistance to penicillin these days. So I’ve got her on a drip of vancomycin and cefotaxime; let’s see how she does. On the whole I’m optimistic, though.”

  Christina just nodded stupidly; she was too numb to process what was being said. “Can her mother see her?” Andy asked Dr. Marvin, and when he said yes, Christina donned a mask and gown to enter the ICU. “I’ll wait for you here,” Andy told her.

  Jordan lay in the bed, looking pale and positively emaciated. How had Christina not seen how thin she was before? What else had she missed? Guilt gripped her throat, cutting off her air, and she had to take deep breaths or she thought she would pass out.

  There were tubes in Jordan’s arms but nothing in her mouth; her breathing was rapid and shallow. Her eyes were closed, and against her pallid cheeks, her lashes looked dark and spidery.

  “Sweetheart, can you hear me?” said Christina through the mask. Jordan’s eyelids fluttered open and then closed again. But when Christina put her hand in Jordan’s, Jordan pressed back. She remained at Jordan’s bedside, tears trickling silently down her face, wetting the mask. Her nose grew clogged, but she would not budge; in that moment, Christina believed that her hand in Jordan’s was the sole current that kept her child alive. It was only when Dr. Marvin returned that she allowed herself to be led away.

  “She’s stable for now,” he said. “And you look spent. Why not have a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and then come back up? I’ve got your cell number now; your husband gave it to me.” Husband? thought Christina. Suddenly she wished he were her husband; she needed him in a way she had not realized until now. She did not correct the doctor but took the elevator with Andy down to the cafeteria.

  “Thank God you were there,” she kept saying as he got coffee, milk, and sugar and directed her to a table. “Thank God you saved her.” Andy said nothing. It was only when they had sat down together that she was able to focus on how serious he looked. “Dr. Marvin says she’s all right,” she told him. “She’s going to pull through.” She ignored the coffee he placed in front of her and grasped his hand, bringing the knuckles to her lips to kiss.

  But Andy gently extricated himself. “I’m as grateful and relieved as you are that she’s going to be all right,” he began. “She’s going to need some help, though. Help and clear direction. And you’re the one who’s going to have to give it to her—alone.”

  “What are you talking about?” This was how she had felt when she first encountered Dr. Marvin—she heard the words, but they made no sense.

  “I’m talking about us, Christina. Or rather—the end of us.”

  “Why?” she cried, not even caring whether anyone around might hear her. “Why now?”

  “We’re too different. You called me pushy—”

  “I’m sorry! I was frantic; can’t you see that?”

  “But on some level, that is how you feel about me: too pushy, too loud, too Jewish. There’s always something I’ll do or say wrong, some way in which I’ll transgress. I don’t want to live walking on eggshells around you. That’s why I think we should end it—before either of us gets even more hurt.”

  “No.” She shook her head. “Please no.” She was whimpering for God’s sake.

  “I’m sorry, Christina. It all became clear to me when I was waiting for you to get here. I can see the pattern and I can see it repeating itself. I piss you off and I’m going to keep pissing you off. I’ll never make you happy.” He placed his hand on her cheek for a moment; then he stood and left her staring at the now stone-cold coffee.

  THIRTY-TWO

  Jordan’s hospital room was filled with brightly colored balloons; they had gravitated toward a corner of the ceiling and were set quivering by the warm air blasting from the heating ducts on the wall. Jordan closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to see them.

  She’d missed performing in the Winter Ball. Missed it entirely, all because she’d gotten some stupid infection. And as if that weren’t bad enough, the doctor had said that her body needed to be stronger—a code word for fatter—to fight it successfully. Another girl wore the Russian peasant costume and got to perform the lively, folk-dance-inspired steps. Another girl took the bow and the applause—her applause.

  There would be other dances, other costumes, said her mother, Alexis, and all the girls from SAB who’d come to visit her, and even Ms. Bonner, who had shown up with a plush teddy bear wearing a pink tutu and pink ballet slippers on its chubby teddy feet. “You’re still the same dancer you were before you got sick,” Ms. Bonner said. “Now you get better and come back to class as soon as you can.” The teddy bear sat across from Jordan on the windowsill, the bitterest of consolation prizes.

  “Good morning, sweetheart.” Jordan opened her eyes. There was her mother, standing at the doorway.

  “Hi,” said Jordan. She closed her eyes again. When she opened them, Christina had sat down in the chair next to the bed.

  “How are you feeling today?” her mother asked.

  “Better. I guess.”

  “The doctor says you can come home soon—maybe as soon as tomorrow. You won’t be able to go back to school or class right away; you’ll have to build up your strength first.”

  “You mean gain weight,” said Jordan, glaring at her mother as if she held her personally responsible for this.

  “Well, a little, yes—,” said her mother.

  “I’m not anorexic. I’m not!” Jordan said.

  “No one said you were anorexic, Jordan,” Christina began. “You’re just very thin, and—”

  “And I’m not bulimic either! I hate throwing up.”

  “You’re getting all upset,” her mother said. “Try to calm down.”

  “I am calm.” But of course she wasn’t. And sh
e didn’t want to talk about this anymore. To change the subject she said, “You can take some of these flowers home if you want. How about those—aren’t they nice? Andy sent them.” The lavish floral arrangement dominated one corner of the room. Christina turned but said nothing. “I’m sorry for getting so mad at him, Mom. I guess he kind of saved my life. At least that’s what they told me.”

  “It’s true,” said Christina. Her voice sounded strangled. “He did. If it hadn’t been for him, you really might have died. I didn’t know you were so sick; you hid it from me.”

  “I know.” Not only had Jordan experienced that blinding headache, but her neck was stiff and she’d felt nauseated too—all classic signs of the disease.

  “And when I think I could have lost you—” Christina put her face in her hands and began to cry.

  “Mom! I’m all right! I didn’t die.” Jordan sat up straighter against the pillows. “What’s the matter, anyway?” Christina didn’t answer. “Is it something else?”

  “It is.”

  “Tell me,” she said. She already knew, though.

  “It’s Andy. He decided we should break up.”

  “Oh,” said Jordan. “I’m sorry.” Was she?

  “So am I,” said Christina. Even though there was a big box of tissues sitting nearby, she rooted around in her purse until she found a handkerchief; Jordan could not remember ever seeing her mother use a tissue. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to burden you.” Jordan didn’t know what to think. She should be happy now, right? She hated him. Or at least she used to, and now she had her wish—he and her mom had broken up. So why did she feel so bad?

  Two days later, Jordan was still in bed but this time at home. The balloons and flowers had trickled off a bit, but she had plenty of visitors, including Alexis, Ella, and Oliver. Jordan was surprised when her mom showed him into her room. She knew he’d been hanging around her mother a lot these past few months, and she’d seen him at church too. But now that Andy was not going to be a part of their lives, she’d assumed he’d just kind of disappear. Wrong. He came in carrying a glossy shopping bag that said Dylan’s Candy Bar across its brightly striped front and handed it to her. “Just some stuff to make you feel better,” he said, settling himself into a chair.