by Ann Jacobus
Summer’s left hand is in Kurt’s. The deafening thunder of the train reaches its highest pitch, and she looks over. Moony’s eyes are closed. He holds Kurt’s other hand.
Moony took Kurt’s hand with his weak one! Saint Moony, what-does-life-expect-from-you Moony is holding Kurt’s hand.
And not hers.
He fooled her! Moony was so strong for her, always there when she needed him, always ready to forgive and extend yet another kindness to her.
She thought she was just like Dad. Dad thought so, too. He was crying when he hugged her because he was worried about her. He loved her and wanted what was best for her.
Sweetheart, you are not like him.
And Moony loves her. But his incredible will to survive and his love of life—his fairy Hope—have given out. She thought she was sacrificing herself to protect him. A sacrifice that takes him, too, would be a sacrilege.
A blowtorch ignites in Summer. The lights in the station flicker. Brighten.
She’s not afraid of dying. She’s afraid of loving.
She is backing down. From loving Moony.
FIFTY-FIVE
The speeding, roaring train is meters from entering the station, and a few more meters from the threesome.
“NOOOooo, let go!” Summer cries, releasing Kurt, pulling toward Moony. But Kurt holds her fast.
For chrissakes! Dad wasn’t talking about soccer coaches or gangbangers. He meant don’t back down from life!
“Step forward,” commands Kurt over the thunder.
Dad was afraid she might one day do what he was going to do. He wanted her to do better, to stay and fight and love and triumph.
Living is freaking hard.
Mom’s voice through the door—You have your own strength.
She’s not her father. Or her mother. Their choices are not hers.
What life expects from her … is to have Moony’s back.
The flame of hope and attachment to this dark world blazes, and the anger she has felt for so long focuses into a laserlike beam as she struggles against the fake, sleazy liar who is using her to rob the world of someone who is … everything she isn’t.
She spews a lifetime of fury at the most worthy target possible.
“You ASSHOLE!” she screams. She jumps back, yanking herself from Kurt’s grasp. She grabs Moony from behind. Her tae kwon do kick into Kurt’s back pushes him in front of the train, a nanosecond before it roars past.
At the same time, Summer pulls Moony with every ounce of her strength.
Moony is torn from Summer, his body knocked by the train.
Brakes screech forever.
Summer lands hard on her butt, slams her head, lies sprawled on the concrete.
Perfectly alive. She is Summer and she’s free.
A groan down the platform.
“Moony!”
Summer pulls herself to her knees, stars flashing, head spinning, and crawls to him.
She gasps. His eyes are closed but moving beneath his lids. His marble-white face glows with perspiration. He groans again but is unconscious.
“Oh my god, oh my god, someone help us!” Summer screams.
FIFTY-SIX
The following hour is as if Summer is under water, in the dark, with earplugs. Suddenly people are all around and tired faces are getting in her face. Some are concerned looking, some brusque. As paramedics examine Moony, a man gently pulls her aside and shines a penlight into her eyes. She’s aware that her head and her tailbone really hurt, and that she feels like she’s going to barf. They make her lie on a board, put a plastic thing around her neck, and check her over.
A man in a dark uniform squats beside her and asks her what happened in French.
Summer doesn’t answer.
He demands in English. “Mademoiselle, what happened?”
She cannot begin to explain what has come to pass, and so says nothing.
When they take Moony away on a stretcher, Summer tries to get up, but realizes she’s strapped down. Two guys carry her out.
Above ground, outside the Métro entrance, too many red lights are flashing. Too many people loiter. The guys put her into the back of one of too many vehicles. She lies there mutely, praying that Moony will be okay.
A woman officer, or maybe she’s a paramedic, uses Summer’s cell phone and contact list to call her mother, who is asleep in a hotel in Geneva. The lady talks briefly then hands the phone to Summer.
“Summer? Darling? Are you okay?” Mom sounds a little hysterical.
As if swimming up to the surface to answer, Summer musters every bit of coherence she can. “I’m okay, Mom,” she says, taking pains to pronounce each word clearly.
“But you’re on the way to the hospital! It’s one thirty in the morning!” Mom’s flair for the obvious. But the pain and fear in Mom’s voice is concern about her.
“We were too near the platform edge when the train came, and Moony”—she gulps, almost chokes—“got hurt.”
“Why did they call me? What’s wrong with you?”
“I fell on my butt. I’m a little dizzy, I guess.”
“I’m calling Monsieur de Villefort. Don’t answer any questions until he comes.”
Summer shuts her eyes. Probably another lawyer. Mom’s worried about her saying something wrong or incriminating. She’s fully responsible and will tell anyone who asks her.
Mom continues, “I’ll be there in a few hours.”
They leave the Trocadéro with sirens blaring, weee-ooo, weee-ooo, weee-ooo. Before long, the truck stops and they pull Summer out in time for her to see two men rolling Moony from another truck through the doors of the emergency room. His eyes are closed and he’s so still.
It’s the last glimpse she has of him.
Summer’s rolled into a room where a doctor examines her. Again, the woman is kind enough to speak English and Summer realizes it’s just another way in which she is spoiled.
She has a mild concussion, a cracked tailbone, and a week-old fractured rib from the catacombs. The doctor gives her a prescription for something with instructions to rest.
Mom’s French lawyer is tapping his foot in the waiting room when she comes out, unmistakable in a dark suit and tired expression. A serious-looking guy in a police nationale uniform stands with him. The doctor hands them a piece of paper and discusses something. Summer sits by dumbly, not even trying to understand.
Summer’s never met him, but Monsieur de Villefort says with a thick French accent, “Mademoiselle, please explain what happened.” The police officer frowns at him.
She says, “It’s my fault. That … we were … too close to the edge. I—I tried to pull Moony back.”
It is the truth. Somehow in all the confusion, pain, and uproar, she decides that she will try to tell the truth from now on. As best she can. Especially to herself.
Glancing at Monsieur, the police officer says, “Did you consume any alcohol?”
“Yes. Earlier this evening.”
“When?”
“At around six thirty or seven.” With Kurt as they strolled by the Seine.
“How much?”
“I guess one or two drinks? I drank brandy. Twice from a flask.” And then just a sip to piss off Moony at the base of the Eiffel Tower. Which was nothing for her.
Moony finished it.
Monsieur-the-lawyer says, “Bah, that was some eight hours ago, and would have no effect at the time of the accident.”
Summer is more sober now than she has ever been in her life. It’s almost overwhelming, but it’s here and now and she will not back away from it.
Ever again.
The officer asks a few general questions about her friendship with Moony, school, and where she lives. She tries to be helpful but her head and tailbone hurt and focusing is taking every bit of strength she has left.
Monsieur and the officer discuss her and the accident. Mom’s friend seems to shut down further questioning.
“I will take you home,” he says
to Summer. He has a 2:00 A.M. shadow that’s as good as a full beard.
“No. Thank you. I’m staying here. I have to find Moony.”
“He is in surgery. You must go home and rest.”
“No,” she says firmly. “I’m staying here until he comes out.”
In exasperation, Monsieur calls Mom, explains, then gives up and leaves.
Summer finds the surgery waiting room. A grim-faced Karen is on the phone to Moony’s dad in Kuwait City. She waves at Summer when she sees her.
Karen slips her phone into her pocket and hugs Summer. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah, I’m fine. What are they doing to Moony?” A silent, old-model TV flickers above them. A fake evergreen wreath with a droopy red ribbon hangs on the wall.
“He’s going to be okay,” Karen says forcefully. “They’re pinning his arm bone. He has a bad break, and a couple of other fractures.” She takes Summer by the shoulders and looks her in the eyes. “What happened?”
Summer stares at Karen’s double-knotted tennis shoes.
She must tell the truth.
At least her truth. Her secrets have held power over her for too long.
She sucks in a deep breath. “I—I was … going to…,” she swallows, “… kill myself.”
Karen sucks air in through her nose, eyes wide. “And he stopped you.” She steps back. “Of course he did.”
“Yes.”
“The police said that the driver said Munir hit the moving train. That you guys were horsing around too close to the platform edge.”
“Probably what it looked like,” Summer says softly. “Was there—Did they mention another, um, person?”
“What?” Karen snaps.
“Never mind.”
“What do you mean another person? Was there someone else?”
“Um. A friend of … we saw—No. There was no one.” No body on the tracks. Or tall, handsome stranger in a black coat. Or an Egyptian athlete with a ghutrah who escorts people to their self-inflicted demise off train platforms or towers.
She hopes he was shattered into a million pieces.
Karen says with quiet fury, “Do you have any idea what you’ve done to Munir?”
Summer drops her head, and nods, unable to keep from crying any longer.
“He may not be okay. His body can’t take this. He may die in there. You realize that, right?”
Summer nods again. Tears stream down her face.
“Because of you.”
Summer blubbers, “You can be as mad at me as you want. I completely understand. But I can’t leave here. He saved my life. And … I … can’t leave.” She was going to say she loves him, but Karen’s furious enough already.
“Here.” Karen impatiently holds out a tissue. “Wipe your face. And Summer? Get some help.” Then she says, ice cold, “But I insist that you leave. And never contact him again.” She walks to the other side of the room and pulls out her phone.
Summer turns to go.
FIFTY-SEVEN
That evening after the accident Summer trudges around the Place Victor-Hugo to St. George’s Anglican Church, not far from Mom’s apartment. By saving Moony, she saved herself. But given what she knows about Kurt, he could easily show up again. And she could put herself in another dead-end situation.
If Moony needed help, then she can damn well admit she does.
She knows where she has to start.
She arrives early for the Alcoholics Anonymous meeting and sits gingerly in a hard chair on her very sore tailbone. At the right time, she says, “Hi, my name is Summer. I’m an alcoholic.”
“Hi, Summer!” everyone answers enthusiastically. Over the next six months, she goes daily to meetings at several locations in Paris. She pretends Moony is sitting next to her at each one.
* * *
The week after the accident, she officially flunks out of PAIS just like all the other schools. The upshot is that she, Mom, Winston, and everyone finally understand that doing yet another term anywhere will be a ludicrous waste of time.
The following days both speed up and slow down. Living them soberly brings them into painful focus, like being awakened in the middle of the night only to be pushed into noonday sunlight and a pool of ice water. Naked. And then jabbed with salad forks. But she’s in charge. She will not back down.
Summer goes back to Dr. Garnier and this time she tells her the truth about her drinking and substance abuse, and about Kurt—how and when she saw him. So she is put on suicide watch. They work out a routine and Summer agrees to stick to it. Rising time, bedtime, AA meetings, regular meal times, exercise time, reading and journaling time. And meds.
Mom sends Moony an oversized flower arrangement with balloons and gummy bears. Karen calls Summer’s mom to thank her and updates her on Moony’s tentative progress, but allows that at least for the present he has two useless arms. His other corrective surgery has been postponed.
* * *
At her one-month sobriety date, Summer writes a letter to Moony. No one she knows within thirty years of her age writes letters. But putting her thoughts down in careful longhand, on heavy cream-colored paper in blue ink, does something to clear and settle her mind. Plus it’s less intrusive than a text, and more respectful than an e-mail.
And she’s always liked stamps.
January 19
Dear Moony,
I hope you will read this and not tear it into little strips. I know how angry you must be with me and I just want you to know that it’s totally cool. All I want is for you to know what you mean to me and how much of a difference you made in my life, and my almost lack-thereof.
First, I hope you’re feeling okay and that your injuries are healing. That you’re resting and taking care of yourself. You’ll be happy to know that I’m praying for you. There is something larger than me or I wouldn’t be here. Every day. I picture you playing soccer, although I don’t care if you ever do that. It just seems a healthy thing to visualize. Incidentally, that’s the New Age part. It’s all pretty unorthodox but it’s mixed in with some Christianity and I’ve been reading about Buddhism and Islam. Thanks for that, too. The permission to do it my own way.
Last night I got my one-month chip at the AA meeting I go to, a little piece of plastic symbolizing thirty-one days of sobriety. That’s longer than I’ve been sober since middle school. I know I’ve got a long way to go, but I want to thank you so much for showing me how to get started.
I’m seeing a psychiatrist and working as hard as I ever have on anything. I call it UN-kidding myself. I’m happy to say it doesn’t involve math of any kind. But it’s difficult. Today is a good day.
I also want you to know how deeply sorry I am that I put you and me both in the situation I did. I will be eternally grateful to you for saving my life. Repeatedly. And eternally devastated that I almost was the cause of you losing yours.
Well, got to go now. I have my AA meeting and then dinner with Mom to look forward to. The days are just packed. I love you, Moony, and always will and pray that one day you will forgive me. I hope also that your mom will one day forgive me, but that’s more an exercise in loving kindness because I know she’d like to kill me, since I failed to do it myself.
Love,
Summer
She mails it, but never gets any reply or acknowledgment.
FIFTY-EIGHT
Almost four months after the accident, in mid-April, Summer and Mom sit at the kitchen table by the French window on the courtyard, eating salades Niçoises. Camus lounges beside them. Mom has a glass of Pouilly-Fuissé and Summer drinks sparkling water. Sometimes they sit in silence, which is fine with Summer, but Dr. Garnier has encouraged her to engage with her mom. And she has something important to ask her.
“Mom,” Summer says, “I’d like to hear about Africa. Your project in Cameroon.”
“Oh, I already told you all about that, didn’t I?” she says, flaking the tuna in her bowl with her fork.
“Uh, no. I don’t know anythin
g about it. I’d like to.” Summer takes a sip of water and looks at Mom expectantly.
Mom glances warily back at her, probably to see if she’s being sarcastic. Summer tries to look encouraging.
“In the village in northern Cameroon where we’re involved, we’ve built a new schoolhouse with six rooms, and a kitchen with gardens.” Her eyes brighten. “The best part is that we’ve just hired a great head teacher. She’s from the city and also spent some time in France, but knows rural ways. She’s gentle and diplomatic—a really good role model. She just charms the families into letting their girls go to or keep going to school. You know, some of them don’t want their girls to go.”
“How come?”
“They need their help at home.” Mom takes a sip of wine. “They also fear it, I think. It’s a change for them. Sophie shows them how it’s a win-win situation.”
“That’s really cool, Mom,” Summer says sincerely.
Mom pulls her shoulders back and looks at Summer again as if to measure whether she should keep going. “We’re expanding into other countries. Other NGOs out there have the same idea, but we’re one of the lowest cost and quickest. We get things set up, and then get out of their way.” Mom looks animated and, frankly, happy. She would rather mother the continent of Africa than Summer, but what the heck. Maybe Africa is easier.
Summer pushes an anchovy aside and takes a big bite of hard-boiled egg. “How do you know where to start?”
“It’s a fairly long process. We meet with authorities for the village, and village elders. We try to listen. It’s important…”
Summer raises her eyebrows but says nothing. Mom listening carefully to anyone is pretty ironic.
There’s a long pause. Mom says softly, “I wasn’t really listening to you, was I?”
“I guess not,” Summer allows. Interesting that right now they are both paying close attention to the other. And trying to be gentle. They have a lifetime to catch up on.
Mom presses her lips together and examines her lettuce. “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I really am. I just want you to know that.” She squeezes Summer’s hand. Her touch feels warm and nice. “That I’m sorry for my big part in all this. I’m not one of those ‘helicopter moms.’ I had to take care of Liz and myself when we were kids. I guess I thought all kids should do that. But I didn’t realize that I was … dangerous.” Her eyes glisten.