The Opposite of Love

by Julie Buxbaum

  “That’s not true,” I say. “It just wasn’t right, Jess. I can’t marry him. I just can’t.” My lower lip starts to tremble. I take my fingers and dig them into my palms, and the threat of tears pulls away.

  “Oh, Emily,” she says, and draws me into a hug. The full use of my name hits a false note, and when I come up to her collarbone, her height is an insult.

  “How is it that you are the most fun person I know and also the most unhappy? Doesn’t it get exhausting?” she asks.

  I don’t know what to say to this, so I don’t say anything at all. I want to smooth it over with a joke, maybe make a reference to the Energizer Bunny, but that would only prove her point. Instead, we walk the rest of the way in silence. I spend the whole time thinking that I should have stayed home and rented a DVD. Maybe masturbated to the miniseries version of Pride and Prejudice. It’s over six hours long.

  That would have been less tiring than this.

  The bar is filled with college students and a few, very recent, graduates. The women wear baby Ts embellished with juvenile images—Mickey Mouse, the Superman symbol, Smurfs—above exposed, pierced midriffs. On the bottom, they wear short cutoff denim skirts with the seams dangling. The men wear fitted black shirts, the two top buttons opened. The air is thick with the smell of hair gel.

  “Is it just me or is everyone in here about twelve?” Jess asks, and I am surprised she notices.

  “I’m tempted to order a Shirley Temple just to fit in.”

  She sidles up to the bar and orders us each a vodka tonic, which we down in about thirty seconds.

  “Tequila?” she asks.

  Three shots later, the bar looks very different. I miss this, I think. You never know when you’re going to meet someone who’s going to change your life. New York, its consistent throb of potential, can be a dangerous place for the overly imaginative; everyone you see is a possible route toward a different future. That guy in the grocery store with the green Pumas asking for cruelty-free eggs, the man in the suit and tie brushing your back when the subway lurches forward, the one in the Strand with sideburns and stubble reading The Believer. All lifestyle prototypes, maybe, but possible rebirths as well, like the freshman year of college all over again.

  Just as quickly, though, the tide turns when I glance at the men gathered in small groups around the bar. They all look like little boys, with their spiky hair and clear eyes. I feel overdressed and out of place. What am I doing here?

  This happens to me often, the moment never quite living up to the anticipation. At least I can hope that later, much later, my memory, like a revisionist historian, will retouch tonight’s event by deleting my existential angst. I will remember laughing and getting drunk with Jess; I won’t remember wanting to go home.

  Years ago, when we went to Paris for the first time, Jess and I spent the months before reveling in blind excitement, memorizing travel guides and practicing our nonexistent French. I remember two days into the vacation, picnicking with a baguette and fromage on the lawn of yet another church and feeling like we looked very grown-up, even though we were not yet twenty.

  While we sat there talking up the bitter cheese, I felt a familiar pang of disappointment. This is what I spent ages looking forward to? Wasn’t I supposed to feel different here? And later, while dancing with a handsome French boy in a club, knowing I looked carefree, my youth something to be relished, I still needed to repeat in my head, like a mantra: This is fun, this is fun, this is fun. Of course, placing my tongue in his mouth did help mute the voices somewhat. Months later, though, I began to remember the vacation as idyllic, and would joke about my French conquest who was, appropriately enough, named Jacques. The trip paid for itself in afterglow.

  I look over at Jess now, and she is chatting with a guy who has one eyebrow. He looks like Frida Kahlo. I tap her on the shoulder and tell her that I am going to step outside to make a quick phone call. She grabs my wrist. Hard.

  “Calling Andrew?”

  “No.”

  “Don’t do it. If you’re going to call him, wait until you’ve sobered up. Trust me. You’ll thank me for it tomorrow,” she says, like she is an authority on the perils of drunk dialing.

  “I was just going to call and say hi.”

  “Give me the phone.” I hand it over. Jess, despite her scrawniness, is stronger than I am and could beat me up. She turns my cell off and hands it back. Clearly, I’m very drunk, because it appears to me that the matter is now closed.

  Four hours and countless shots later, Jess and I are sitting on stools talking to Frida and Frida’s friend. Ironically, it turns out that Frida is a painter. Frida’s friend, whose name I don’t know or can’t remember, says he’s an entrepreneur, but when I ask him in what field, he looks at me blankly. I spend much of the conversation staring at his eyebrows, which in contrast to Frida’s mustache-on-the-forehead look, have been recently overarched and waxed by a professional. They are perfect right triangles.

  When the room starts to spin and I have grown bored of internally debating the relative disadvantages of over-and undergrooming, it’s time to go home. Jess, who has the biggest libido of anyone I know—she calls herself a “sex-positive feminist,” though I suspect this is grounded less in philosophy, more in pleasure—stays behind, presumably to pursue Frida. I admire the fact that her approach to sex is so simple. I could use a healthy dose of her nonchalance.

  I go home alone and greet Robert at the door. As I stumble onto the elevator, he calls out to me to drink a couple of glasses of water before bed. It takes a few attempts to get the keys in the lock, but eventually I get inside and weave toward the bathroom.

  And I stay there, crouched on the floor, with my head resting on the toilet seat, content to feel the coolness against my cheek, until the sun shines through my window and announces that it is morning.

  This is the best sleep I have gotten all week.

  Seven

  I hurt everywhere. I can’t cross the room without succumbing to the spins. I glance at the clock, but move my head too quickly and cause a fresh rush of nausea. I am supposed to meet my grandfather at ten in Riverdale. It is 8:55 and I need to make a 9:15 train. Which means I should have left for Grand Central about ten minutes ago. Shit. I consider canceling, but I just can’t do that to my Grandpa Jack. Anyone else, maybe, but not my Grandpa Jack. He has always shown up for me.

  I drag myself up off the floor, brush my teeth, and swish around some mouthwash. Better to not show up at his retirement home smelling like tequila. Since there is no time to shower, I swat a Clearasil face wipe under my arms. It stings. I grab a T-shirt and a ratty pair of jeans from the tower of dirty laundry, throw my purse over my shoulder, and run out the door, down the six flights of stairs—there is no time to wait for the elevator—and out onto the street. There will be no winning contests for good hygiene today. A quick look at my watch dashes any dreams of coffee. I sprint unevenly toward the subway and weigh the possibility that I may still be drunk. I reach the platform just as the car is pulling away. Damn.

  It takes at least six minutes until the next train arrives. I cannot miss the train to Riverdale, I mutter to myself, possibly out loud. Definitely out loud. I’m still drunk. Fuck. The other people on the train move away from me, as if my kind of mental illness is contagious. I want to tell them not to worry, that I’ve just been drinking, but I realize that this will probably not help matters, seeing that it’s only nine a.m. Instead, I drop my head in my hands and moan softly to myself. The car rocks back and forth, provoking my hangover.

  “Emily?” asks a disembodied voice from above. I see freshly shined black shoes in front of me, but I don’t lift my head. This cannot be happening. I have to be imagining this. Please God, tell me that this is not happening. I wonder if I keep my head down and pretend like I don’t hear Andrew, he will walk away. I squeeze my eyes closed, hoping this will make him disappear. It doesn’t. When I open them, he is still there. Freshly shined black shoes.

  This
is really happening.

  “Hey,” I say. He looks at me curiously, and I can tell by the hunch in his shoulders that he is trying not to laugh. I look down and realize I am wearing his old T-shirt from the MIT swim team, the one he had promised me he would throw out. The words WET SHAVED BEAVERS are written in black letters across my chest. Although the first time I heard the story of the shirt I found it mildly humorous—apparently the school’s mascot is the beaver, and the team used to shave their legs so they could swim faster; you get the picture—it’s not amusing right now. The only benefit to being drunk is that I don’t quite feel the full depth of my humiliation.

  “Do you need help?” I can tell he is enjoying this, and I don’t blame him.

  “Fuck,” I say out loud, though I mean to just think it.

  “Fuck,” I say again out loud, this time for saying it before when I meant to just think it. Get yourself together, Emily.

  “Hey there,” I say. “Sorry. Still drunk from last night.”

  “I can see that.”

  “Tequila. Going to Grandpa Jack’s. Am late.” I keep my head down to avoid the spins.

  “You went out with Jess, didn’t you?” Jess is notorious for taking me out and getting me obliterated. She seems to think it’s healthy to lose control of your bodily functions every once in a while. To her, vomit signifies the end of a good night out.

  “Yup. Shots. And T-shirt because I was late.” My lips keep failing me. I have clear sentences in my head, but they won’t translate into words. Andrew sits down next to me and starts to look concerned.

  “You sure you’re okay?”

  “Fine, just late. And a little queasy.” The electronic voice announces Grand Central Station.

  “This is my stop,” I say, proud of forming a full sentence and relieved that I have an escape. To my surprise, though, Andrew gets up to follow me off the train. He walks up the two flights of stairs, taking my elbow as I wobble. We make it into the main area of the terminal, which feels oddly empty and almost intimate in its vastness; the constellations on the ceiling seem to be hovering lower than usual. The place is empty enough for us to hear the ticking of the big clock, which I imagine must be symbolic of something, though, in my current state, I couldn’t tell you what.

  I feel Andrew next to me, and my arm gets warm and tingly. Stop it. This is not the time for this, I tell myself. The tingles make me anxious suddenly, remind me of the rocking train, and I consider the possibility that I might throw up on Andrew’s shoes. I time my breaths to the ticktocks—inhale on the tick, exhale on the tock—and, thankfully, the nausea passes.

  “You are in no condition to go anywhere,” he says. And though I feel like saying something juvenile and smart-ass, like You are not the boss of me or Who died and made you captain, I hold back. Andrew is absolutely right. I let him steer me toward a Starbucks, and I sit down. He asks for my cell phone, and I hand it over. It is still turned off from last night. He flips it open and scrolls through for my grandfather’s number.

  “Grandpa Jack,” he says. “It’s Andrew.” I can’t hear what my grandfather is saying on the other line, but I’m sure it’s something cheerful, because Andrew smiles into the phone.

  “Unfortunately, Emily is going to be a bit late.” He glances back at me and frowns. “No, no, nothing to worry about. There was a problem with the subway and she missed the train. She’ll probably be on the ten–fifteen.

  “Will do, Grandpa Jack. I hope to come by sometime soon as well. Give my love to Ruth.” Andrew hangs up and hands the phone back. He gives me a look, as if to say I can’t believe I just had to lie to Grandpa Jack. He heads to the counter and comes back with two cups of coffee and two chocolate croissants.

  “Thanks,” I say.

  Andrew doesn’t respond. He sits down across from me and his shoulders start to tremble slightly and then shake. He looks like he is sobbing, and my heart blinks with guilt. I never meant to hurt him. But it turns out Andrew is not crying at all; he is cracking up. He starts with small giggles, but within seconds he is doubled over with laughter, his head between his legs. I start laughing too. I can’t help myself—his laugh has always been contagious—and fat tears roll down my cheeks.

  We collect ourselves, and it seems the fit is over. But then I hiccup, and it starts again. Andrew slaps his knees, I grip my stomach. We are laughing so hard it hurts; it is too much to expect out of our tiny mouths.

  I look up, our eyes meet, and just like that, we stop laughing, and the moment devolves into awkward silence. I wish we could keep on forgetting to remember ourselves.

  “So how have you been?” I ask, to break the tension.

  “Good,” he says. “Great, actually. Really great.”

  “Good, I’m glad.”

  “And you?” he asks, like we are just neighbors, like it wasn’t just a couple of weeks ago that we had sex on my kitchen floor. And in my bathtub. And in the dressing room at Saks.

  “Okay. Busy with work. Very busy.” I wrap my hands around my coffee cup to warm my fingertips. I take a sip of coffee, and it burns.

  “Interesting case?” He bites into a croissant. A flake clings to his mouth—he always has sticky lips—and I want to lick it off. This wouldn’t be the first time.

  “Accounting fraud,” I lie. “Absolutely fascinating. You? Anything interesting going on in the E.R.?”

  “I delivered a baby yesterday. That was cool,” he says. “Miracle of life and all.”

  “Wow,” I say. “Wow.”

  “Yeah. Well, okay, then.” Andrew gets up, a signal that our conversation is now over, and he dumps both of our unfinished croissants into the trash. I am not ready to leave yet—wasn’t even finished with my breakfast—but I follow his departing back into the main terminal anyway, until he stops in front of the big clock.

  “Take care of yourself,” he says, and I glance downward, hoping he will kiss me good-bye. I know it is more than I deserve, but I want to feel his lips against mine, to feel the Andrew tingles just once more. I wouldn’t even mind a peck on the cheek instead, like a brother or a distant cousin. That would hold me over.

  “You too. Thanks for your help,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. When I look up, head tilted, expectant, I am met only by empty air. Andrew is already on the other side of the station, jogging as fast as he can toward the exit.

  The Riverdale Retirement Home reminds me of a hotel in Las Vegas. It has an ornate lobby—gold-trimmed ceilings, couches with carved arms, even a concierge desk. The main floor has a movie theater, a dining room, and a café, all circling a center lounge, the layout making it next to impossible to find the exit. Televisions in the elevators assault the senses, announce events demanding your time and attention: “The Terminator: Action Film Night!”, “Politics in the Middle East: Any hope for peace?”, “Investment 101: How to make your savings go farther.” I am not sure which is more depressing of the two, the retirement home or Vegas, but they share that artifice of optimism sullied by a beaten clientele. People go to both to die a slow death.

  For a retirement home, though, this is as nice as it gets. My grandfather has a one-bedroom apartment on an “active seniors” floor, a “penthouse,” with top-to-bottom windows. His decor is tidy and efficient, everything serving multiple functions, just the way he likes it. The coffee table has a hidden drawer for board games, the toaster makes rotisserie chicken, the toilet-seat lid sings songs. When my grandfather moved here a few years ago, after a minor stroke, it seemed like a decent compromise. At least on the surface, independence is preserved. He may have a meal plan like a college freshman and carry around medical tags, but at the end of the day, he has his own front door; he was adamant about having his own front door.

  The biggest problem with this place, putting aside the fact that once a resident moves in he almost never moves out, is the forced interaction with the old and infirm. Grandpa Jack’s apartment shares an elevator bank with the “constant care” floors, rendering every trip up a reminder of
what the future holds. No one wants to see those ubiquitous poles with packets of fluid hanging like plastic fruit, the big nurses taking care of small people. No one wants to hear the groans that sound an awful lot like good-byes.

  I wave hello to Grandpa Jack and Ruth, his neighbor and friend, when I spot them on the other side of the lobby. As I cross the marble floor, I see Ruth lean in and brush a piece of lint off my grandfather’s plaid shirt.

  “Have you been drinking, love?” my grandfather asks, after I kiss his cheek. The man has a nose like a narc.

  “Yeah, too many tequila shots last night. Sorry, Gramps.”

  “I knew it. That’s why you were late, right? Got your head in the toilet?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Thanks. You just made me thirty bucks. Ruth?” He puts out his palm.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “I bet Ruth that there wasn’t a subway problem, and she said you wouldn’t lie to me. I, of course, know you a little better.” My grandfather tips his newsboy cap at me, a relic from his teenage years. I am tempted to steal it from him, like I did his Burberry coat. I know he wouldn’t mind. He says it makes him happy to have his clothes gallivanting around Manhattan for a second round.

  “Sorry,” I say to Ruth, and give her a hug. “I learned from the best.”

  This is not an overstatement. The truth is everything I know about life I learned from Grandpa Jack. To tie my shoes, to always carry a book, to say please and thank you and follow up with a card, to daydream as a hobby, to tip big, to question the existence of God, to grin through pain. To show up.

  Next to my mother, he was my favorite person in the world when I was a kid. A real-life superhero, who swooped in and out as needed. When I failed my driver’s test, when I had my appendix removed, when Toby Myers said I had a hairy upper lip and made me cry in front of the entire sixth grade, he was the one who made it all hurt a little less. Much the same is true now.