by Alli Curran
“Where’d you buy it…from that horrible place on the corner?”
“Nope. Not the deli. I stopped by Shabu-Shabu.”
If the look on her face is any indication, Helen is probably feeling conflicted. On the one hand, I’m sure she’s still mad at me. On the other hand, she’s a sushi addict, particularly when it comes to the high-quality fare served at fine establishments like Shabu-Shabu.
“Okay,” she says, crossing her arms and glaring at me, “I’m agreeing to share, but you’re still not forgiven.”
Luckily her tone seems to be thawing. We’ve moved from Arctic frigid to bone-chilling cold. Progress…it’s a good thing. Unpacking the aluminum cartons filled with neat little rows of tuna, salmon and yellow tail, I glance up at Helen and take a deep breath.
“I’m really sorry. I didn’t mean to cause trouble, but I thought Grace should know that BJ was cheating. Wouldn’t you want to know if your ‘monogamous’ boyfriend was fooling around? What if he wasn’t using condoms?”
Helen dunks a thick piece of tuna into soy sauce and shoves it whole into her mouth.
“We alwayths used condoms,” she mumbles while chewing.
I sigh.
“That’s not the point. Grace trusted him, and he lied to her.”
Before answering, Helen ferociously bites a piece of yellow tail. I’m relieved she’s got something inanimate to chew on.
“Emma, this was none of your business,” she snaps between swallows. “You’re way too self-righteous. You think you can jump into a crappy situation and save everyone, but you can’t. Whenever you get involved in other people’s private lives, you screw things up even more.”
The truth hurts.
“Helen, I….”
“Spare me,” she says, holding up her hand. “I know you’re sorry. I am too, especially because the little shit lied to me as well.”
That’s news. I raise my eyebrows.
“Yeah, I knew BJ was steady with Grace, and I refused to sleep with him under those conditions. When he told me they’d broken up, I was stupid enough to believe him—which is unfortunate, since I actually liked him.”
“Why? Was he good in bed?”
Helen gives me a wry look.
“We’re talking about my screwed up life here, not yours, Emma.”
Then she smiles.
“To tell you the truth, he was pretty awful in bed. For a future surgeon, he had a hell of a time locating certain critical body parts.”
The two of us start laughing, which is an absolute relief.
“So how are things going with the big ‘T’?” asks Helen.
“I’ve been trying to break up with him since I got home from Brazil.”
Helen dramatically rolls her big, dark eyes.
“Emma, you’ve spent every other night in his apartment, or vice versa, since you got home. Break up? It’s more like you’re moving in together.”
“Speaking of which, he asked me to move to Michigan with him.”
Helen slams her hand against the kitchen table.
“Ow…Emma,” she says, sucking on her pinky. “You’re not seriously thinking of following him into some happily never after?”
“Of course not. I’d never do that….At least, I don’t think I’d do that.”
“That’s the problem with you, Emma. You’re too wishy-washy. You should’ve left him months ago.”
“I was planning to leave him, especially after everything that happened in Brazil.”
My voice involuntarily lowers to a whisper.
“But the second I saw him, I fell apart.”
“Wait a minute,” says Helen. “What happened in Brazil?”
“It’s a long story.”
Helen sighs.
“You did buy a lot of sushi,” she says.
As we stuff our faces for the next hour, I recount the stories of Grace, Alvin, Luciano and Paula, knowing Helen won’t have contact with anyone in Salvador. When I’m finished, I feel surprisingly lighter.
“That’s quite a tale, Emma.”
“I know.”
“And it’s totally ironic,” says Helen.
“What is?” I ask.
Before she answers the question, my heart starts to sink. I can almost sense what she’s going to say.
“That you travel halfway across the world and run straight into another guy who’s just like Thomas.”
“But that’s a totally different sit.…”
“Oh, no it’s not,” she interrupts. “Luciano and Thomas have plenty in common. From what you just told me, Luciano is yet another male commitment-phobe.”
“Well, that’s true, but….”
“And clearly, he put his own, adolescent needs ahead of Paula’s, resulting in emotionally cold, immature behavior.”
“I know, except….”
“The same way that Thomas mistreats you all the time. What doesn’t make sense to me is why a smart woman like yourself is bothered by this inequity in someone else’s relationship, when you allow yourself to be similarly mistreated by Thomas, day after day.”
Helen crosses her arms triumphantly.
Sheesh. She’s completely right. Helen would make a great psychiatrist.
Following her dead-on assessment, my brain is suddenly electrified with a critical piece of knowledge that has been teetering on the edge of my consciousness for some time now, probably since the night that Grace and I cared for Paula. Not only do I need to leave Thomas, but I’m finally strong enough to do it.
“What I’d really like to know,” says Helen, “is when you’re going to get rid of him for good?”
I glance down at the empty box of sushi and back up at Helen. The answer to her question is obvious.
“Right now.”
Before Helen has time to look doubtful, I leap up from my seat. While I still have momentum, I race out the door. One minute later, which is the time it takes me to sprint down two flights of stairs, I knock on Thomas’s door.
“Emma, I wasn’t expecting you,” he says, opening the door. Seeing the look on my face, he asks immediately, “What’s wrong?”
I’m terrible at hiding my emotions.
“Sorry, I just need to catch my breath,” I say.
For a moment I lean against the doorframe, hyperventilating.
“What’s up? Did someone chase you down here?”
“No one chased me, but we have a problem.”
“Oh?” he asks casually.
Despite his light tone, I notice the color draining from his face. Thomas slinks into one of his kitchen chairs, eyeing my abdomen suspiciously.
“You’re not…pregnant…are you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I say, following him inside.
“Phew,” he says, looking relieved, sitting up a little straighter. “Then what’s the problem?”
“Remember when you said that I deserve someone better than you?”
“Uh, yeah,” he says, comprehension dawning.
“You were right. Look, Thomas. You’re an incredible person. Without question you’re the hottest man I’ve ever known, and that’s part of the issue. I’m so attracted to you that I can’t think straight whenever we’re near each other.”
Thomas stands to embrace me, but I press my palm against his chest, forcing him back into the chair.
“That’s exactly what I’m talking about—no touching. Just stay where you are,” you treacherous, sexy man.
“If you really want me to stay, you could tie me up.”
He smiles wickedly. Some enticing images of the two of us role playing come to mind, but I quickly eject them from my thoughts.
“This is no joke, Thomas. For the last few months, I’ve been trying to tell you how I feel. And now I’m going to do it.”
“Out with it, girl,” he says, smirking.
Obviously, he’s not taking me seriously.
“You treat me like dirt, Thomas, and I’m tired of it. I’m done feeling unloved and belittled.”
“I see. Well, if you’ve been feeling this way for so long, why didn’t you say something previously?”
“I didn’t say anything earlier because all the sex kept getting in the way. Now keep quiet, so I can finish. On some level, I think you love me, and I certainly love you. But you make me feel like I’m living in an emotional vacuum, and it’s sucking the life out of me.”
“Perhaps you should see my shrink.”
“Your sarcasm isn’t funny, which leads directly to my next point. You’re like Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde—completely unpredictable. Sometimes you’re fun, romantic even, but most of the time you’re morose. Dating you is giving me emotional whiplash.”
“So what are you trying to say here, Emma? I think I recently tried to tell you how much I care for you.”
“Really? When was that?”
“When I asked you to move to Michigan with me.”
“You asked me in a very open-ended, nonspecific sort of way. How was that supposed to make me feel loved?”
“Let me be more specific.”
Thomas stands, taking one step in my direction, and I’m frozen. Trying to block out his physicality, I close my eyes, as though I’m saying the Sh’ma.
“I’ve been giving this a lot of thought,” he says. “At some point in a relationship, you have to decide whether you’re in it for the long haul. And Emma, I’ve decided. I want us to stay together.”
Like a near-death experience, a flood of images pours through my mind. Fortunately, they share the common theme of Thomas mistreating me, flowing together to give me the strength I need to resist this pseudo-romance.
“I’m sorry, Thomas,” I say, opening my eyes. “I will always love you, but I cannot stay with you. We’re done. And I mean it—we’re finished, forever, goodbye.”
Thomas stares at me, I think in disbelief. Then I dart out the door.
Instead of returning home, I forge ahead, not thinking of a particular destination, letting my feet carry me where they will. As I walk along, the New York City streets are a blur of cars, people, and dogs. Eventually I find myself in Central Park, where I settle down onto a grassy slope overlooking the lake near 72nd Street. Since it’s the off season, no boats are out on the water. Aside from ripples made by the occasional duck in transit, the black water is perfectly still. In summertime, the Barefoot Man sometimes plays his guitar here, and I imagine he’s standing before me now, crooning Bob Dylan’s “Don’t Think Twice” near the rushes. Taking in my surroundings, signs of spring are everywhere. Inch-long daffodil stalks have popped up along the hill where I’m resting, trees are budding, and the first purple crocuses of the season have begun sprouting up near the banks of the lake. New life is blossoming all around me, and I’m thankful to be starting over as well, freed from a bad relationship that could’ve permanently entrapped me. Contemplating my future with optimism, I stand up, brush the dirt off my backside, and head home to resume my life without Thomas.
Chapter Twelve
Thorny Relationships
On Saturday morning I approach a building on 74th Street between Park and Madison. Flanking both sides of the entryway is a sculpted stone facade depicting an intricate pattern of leaves and flowers. After entering and stating my destination, the doorman gives me a cordial nod. Dim and unassuming, the lobby is less pretentious than I’d expected. When the elevator bell dings on the fourth floor, I’m surprised to find only one apartment in the hallway. A gold, metallic plate reading “Santos” hangs on the dark green door. Just for fun, instead of ringing the bell, I try the matching gold knocker positioned below the nameplate. When no one answers my first two knocks, I try again, banging much more loudly the third time.
“Cohmeeng,” shouts a female voice with a heavy Spanish accent.
A harried-looking, middle-aged woman with long, midnight hair swept up into a loose ponytail answers the door. After tucking back some flyaway strands, she leans on a mop and gives me a puzzled look.
“Umm,” I say, “are you Mrs. Santos?”
“No, senorita. Meesus Santos no home now.”
“I see. Well, I spoke to her on the phone. I have an appointment with Aimee.”
“Ah, si,” says the woman. “My name ees Maria. Meesus Santos mention you cohmeeng.”
Maria gestures for me to enter.
“Cohm inside. I take you Aimee.”
Inside the foyer, the décor is understated elegance. As Maria leads me down the hallway, my sneakers squeak a bit on the black and white, square-tiled floor. Soon we pass a massive, wooden grandfather clock standing sentry at the end of the foyer. After rounding the entryway, I’m swallowed up by the most expansive living room that I’ve ever seen in a Manhattan apartment. By city standards, the space is huge, at least quadruple the size of my bedroom. Lavish furnishings, including a red velvet divan, brown leather couches, and finely woven rugs—Turkish, I think—fill this exquisite room.
With Maria hurrying me forward there’s no time to absorb small details. Soon we stop outside a plain white door.
Maria smiles and says, “Mees Aimee’s room.”
Gesturing for me to enter, Maria turns back toward the living room. Rather than barging in, I try knocking, but receive no response.
“Hi, there, Aimee,” I call through the door. “My name’s Emma. I’m a tutor from Advantage. Did your mom mention I’d be stopping by?”
Still nothing. I open the door a crack and peek inside. Adjacent the bedroom’s far wall is a child-shaped lump sticking up underneath a rose-colored blanket. Intermittently a light flashes from beneath the covers.
“May I come in?” I ask.
Since Aimee remains mute, I take this as a “yes.”
Entering the room, I nearly trip over a bunch of books and clothing scattered across the floor.
In contrast to the perfect living room, Aimee’s bedroom is slovenly maintained. The mirror on an otherwise elegant vanity is covered with fingerprints and streaks of a dry, white substance resembling old toothpaste. An off-white dresser matching the vanity is similarly disarrayed. Several drawers hang open, allowing colorful shirts, underwear, pants, and bathing suits to spill out at all levels. The lid of a large toy box leans open against the light pink bedroom wall, revealing sparkling ballerina costumes, dolls, balls, and various expensive-looking stuffed animals. Since the toys are overflowing onto the hardwood floor, I’ll need to watch my step to avoid….
“Shi…I mean ouch,” I shout, tripping over a tennis ball, crash landing painfully onto my right knee.
For a moment I hunker down on the floor, nursing my injured patella. That’s when I notice a small face peering out from under the comforter. After blinking once, the eyes promptly disappear under the blanket.
“Aimee?” I ask.
No response.
“Earth to Aimee?”
“Aimee’s not on Earth,” says a muffled, little-girl voice. “She’s on Mars.”
“Well, can you send Mars a message? Aimee’s new tutor is here and ready to get started.”
“Aimee’s busy reading.”
The kid clearly likes to talk about herself in the third person, and I run with it.
“What is Aimee reading?”
“The Lord of the Rings series.”
“Ooh. I loved that series.”
“Aimee has already finished reading the whole thing. This is her second time going through it.”
Now I’m intrigued. Why would such an avid reader be having trouble with her schoolwork?
“Wow. Twice already…that’s impressive. Aimee must be an excellent reader.”
“She is.”
“Would Aimee like to show Emma which chapter she’s on?”
Aimee’s head pops out again from under the blanket. Though the shape of her face is round like a baby’s, her skin is more porcelain than pink, similar in shade to a china doll. As she stares at me with a pair of intelligent hazel eyes, I notice her finely chiseled chin, upturned nose, and slightly pointed ears. Two thi
ck braids of light brown hair, currently mussed with errant blonde strands escaping in all directions, run down either side of her elfin face.
While I’m gazing at this child, a dim light flickers somewhere in my subconscious memory. She looks familiar, but I can’t place her face.
Aimee lithely hops down from the bed, holding the paperback book tightly to her side. For a fourth grader she seems quite petite, short and slight of build.
“She’s reading the part where Gollum bites off Frodo’s finger.”
Aimee makes a chomping noise for effect.
I wonder where I’ve seen her before. Was she a patient I encountered on the wards during my pediatrics rotation? No…too healthy. Did I meet her during my last well-child clinic? Not likely, since her parents probably make too much money to attend a public clinic. The summer before med school, I worked at a ritzy sleep-away camp. Maybe she was one of the campers? Or maybe not. Somewhere in my brain I sense a connection that I’m missing, a lost piece of data that has shifted beyond easy recollection.
As Aimee moves closer, I discern several scratch marks on her forearms. Though superficial in nature, they appear to be self-inflicted, similar to the deeper cutting marks that I observed on the arms of depressed teenage girls during my psychiatry rotation.
“Would Aimee like to take a break from reading and do some schoolwork?” I ask.
“No, thank you,” she says.
“Well, Aimee’s mother hired a tutor, Emma...I mean me, to help her—you—get some homework done.”
“Aimee’s too busy reading to do homework right now.”
The child then dives back under her comforter, clicking on the flashlight.
Hmm. I look around the room for inspiration. Nestled in the corner of the vanity is a glossy photograph depicting a slightly younger Aimee, flanked by two adults, who presumably are her parents. The father is tall, dark skinned, and muscular, perhaps Italian; while the mother is average height, dark haired, olive toned, and similarly fit. In the picture, both adults hold tennis rackets over their shoulders, while a noticeably paler Aimee grasps a bright yellow ball between them. All three are smiling, apparently happy. The weather in the photograph looks mild and sunny.
“Does Aimee like to play tennis?” I ask, lifting up toys and clothing from the floor, searching for school books.