by Alli Curran
“Okay, so they’ve got a nice house and a lot of money. When it comes to love, money isn’t important.”
“It could be her double-D bra size.”
“Enough! You made your point, Helen. Alex is a shallow jerk.”
“Correct. And you’re lucky he left you.”
“I’m lucky he left me?”
“That’s right, Emma. Just keep repeating the words like a mantra, over and over again.”
“I’m lucky he left me. I’m lucky he left me….Hey, Helen...wanna go get some Chinese takeout? I’m starving.”
Two months after breaking up with Alex, having devoured enough calories to recover emotionally, I’d put on nearly 40 pounds, which took another year to lose. Never again will I allow myself such a damaging indulgence. Aside from binge eating, there must be a better way to lose my current angst. Throwing my angry soul on the city seems like a good idea. No, I’m not talking about jumping off my roof. No man is worth that kind of stupidity.
Though I’m just a few blocks from the East River, the gnawing wind freezes my fingers even before I spot the water churning alongside the promenade. My leather bomber jacket only partially deflects the cold from my bones, but I don’t mind the frigid temperatures. I’m feeling mean, and the unseasonably raw weather matches my mood. Initiating a fast-paced walk, I realize that I’ll need to start running to endure the cold. Though I’m not exactly dressed for the occasion in jeans and the spring jacket, at least I’m wearing sneakers. Soon I’m flying along the promenade, avoiding walkers and dogs, focusing my gaze on the slate gray depths. As my feet hit the pavement, I attempt to pound the jealousy and unhappiness right out of my body. When I reach 92nd Street about one mile away, cold-induced bronchospasm seizes my lungs, and I’m forced to halt, gasping for air. Despite my wheezing and chest pain—or maybe because of it—my head is much clearer. I suppose that when you can’t breathe, wallowing in self-pity is impossible. Susie’s relationship with Justin isn’t really my problem. Mostly, I’m angry at myself for staying with Thomas as long as I did, but I won’t make the same mistake again.
Fifteen minutes later my resolve is put to the test, when I run into Thomas in the lobby of our building. In my next life, I’ll try to remember to avoid dating anyone who lives within a 10-mile radius of my home address.
“Emma,” he calls, when he sees me walking toward the elevators.
“Thomas,” I reply, attempting to remain calm.
At the moment our entryway is quiet. Aside from the doorman, we’re the only two people in the lobby.
“I was just thinking about you.”
“Were you?” I ask, raising my eyebrows questioningly.
“Yes, I was. Actually, I’ve been thinking about you all day.”
“Oh?”
Oh, no.
“Over the weekend, I stopped by my favorite store in the Village, and I picked something up for you. I was trying to figure out when to give it to you, but now might be the perfect time.”
“You didn’t get me more flowers, did you?”
Thomas cracks a wry smile.
“Leave it to you, Emma, to prick your finger on a bunch of roses. How is it, by the way?”
“How’s what?”
“Your finger.”
“Umm, okay, I guess.”
An elevator dings as it arrives in the lobby. The doors open and close, but we both ignore it.
“Can I take a look?” he says, reaching for my hand.
“Oh, I….”
Before I have time to refuse him, Thomas gently grasps the finger in question, sending expectant chills down my spine.
Be strong, Emma, I tell myself. Simply remove the hand, and walk away.
Looking into my eyes, he says, “I’m sorry you got hurt.”
When he brushes his lips lightly over my fingertip, I nearly pass out.
Oh, please God, don’t do this to me now.
“You know, Emma, lately I’ve been working with my therapist on a number of important issues. Why don’t you come upstairs with me for a few minutes, and I’ll tell you all about it.”
“Thomas, I’m not sure whether this is such a good….”
“Plus I need to give you your gift.”
Ding. Another elevator opens, and this time Thomas pulls me inside with him. For the entire ride, he holds my hand, and neither of us says a word. Stepping out on the twenty-third floor, I follow Thomas down the hallway like he’s the Pied Piper, and we enter his apartment together.
Arriving in his bedroom a moment later, Thomas withdraws a black plastic bag from his closet.
“This is for you,” he says.
“What’s in there?” I ask, eyeing the bag as though it contains a deadly bomb, or perhaps a bunch of rattlesnakes.
From a physical standpoint, I’m going downhill fast. Like I’ve just run a marathon, my legs feel weak, my heart is pounding against my ribs, and my extremities are beginning to tingle.
“Take a look,” he says seductively, standing one foot away from me.
Reaching inside the bag, my fingers encounter a soft, silky material. When I remove his gift, I discover that Thomas has purchased a skimpy, black satin negligee that looks about my size.
“There’s more,” he says.
Of course there’s more. There’s always more.
At the bottom of the bag I find a pair of black stilettos with life-threatening, six-inch heels.
“I’d love to see you try everything on together,” says Thomas, taking a step closer to me. “I think the shoes will look particularly fetching with the nighty.”
The tiny portion of my brain that is still functioning forces my jelly legs to take one step backward, thus disobeying the rest of my body, which is trying very hard to move forward, into his arms.
Glancing at the shoes again, I suddenly burst out laughing.
“What? Why are you laughing?” asks Thomas.
“I can’t believe you bought these for me!” I say. “You must really want to kill me.”
“Right now, part of me does want to kill you, but mostly I’d like to get you back into my bed.”
“I’m flattered, Thomas, and I understand how you feel. Part of me would love to jump in there with you as well.”
“Why not do it, then?” he says. “Life is short, you know.”
“Don’t tempt me,” I say.
Then I sigh and take a deep breath.
“Look, Thomas. The problem isn’t the sex—it’s what comes afterward. During sex, we have an amazing connection; but once we’re finished, nothing comes afterward…except emptiness. At this point in my life, I need a deeper relationship. I want to be with someone who’s loving and supportive, someone who isn’t afraid to express his feelings for me. From a practical standpoint, I want a man who shows up on time, whenever I’m expecting him, and doesn’t leave me hanging. Do you get that?”
“Of course I do, Emma. For the last couple of months, I’ve been exploring the ‘deeper’ stuff with my therapist. Maybe you and I could try going deeper…together.”
That’s when I start hallucinating.
“Don’t listen to him, Emma,” Susie whispers in my right ear. “He’s just manipulating you.”
Helen murmurs in my left, “How many times have you been down this road with him already?”
“You’re absolutely right,” I say out loud.
"So you do want to try again?" asks Thomas.
“No, I don’t.”
“But you just said….”
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I say.
“Who were you talking to?”
“The voices in my head.”
“Now I’m convinced you need to see my shrink. What did the voices say?”
“That I need to get the hell out of here, while I still can. And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.”
I turn on my stable, flat-heeled sneakers, pivoting toward the door.
“Emma,” says Thomas.
“What?” I yell over my
shoulder.
“When you’re eighty-years-old, you’re still going to remember me.”
“God willing, I’ll live that long,” I say as I’m leaving.
Chapter Fourteen
Gray Hair
At the end of the week, when warmer air finally begins to thaw the chilly grip of winter, I find that I’ve developed a critical mass of gray hair. Since my late teens, I’ve occasionally plucked out an annoying strand or two, but on this particular Saturday morning I discover a clump of at least 20 insidious invaders, sprouting directly from the center of my head. The concentration is significant enough to be noticeable by individuals other than myself.
“Aah!” I say to the stranger in the bathroom mirror.
“Problem?” Helen calls from the kitchen.
I stick my rapidly aging head out the door.
“Umm, would you mind looking at something?”
“What? You didn’t catch pubic lice, or something disgusting like that, from Thomas, did you? It’s a little early in the morning for me to be checking private parts. On the other hand, I did get honors in my ob-gyn rotation.”
“No, it’s not pubic lice. Nothing like that. It’s much worse.”
“What could be worse than crabs?” asks Helen, walking down the hallway toward the bathroom.
“Come see,” I say.
Helen briefly inspects my head and starts chuckling.
“What are you laughing at?”
I suppress the urge to hit her with my hair brush.
“Get used to it, Emma. It’s all downhill from here,” she says. “First your hair turns gray, and then the dementia sets in. Next thing you know they’ll be carting you off to the nursing home around the corner.”
Helen’s voice is so heavily laced with sarcasm that all of my anger evaporates. Without warning, I find myself fighting back tears.
“But I’m too young for this to be happening, right?”
Helen shrugs.
“Why don’t you call your mother and ask her when she went gray? I’ve heard it’s genetic.”
Her point is well taken.
Though I’m not ready to discuss reconciliation with my mother, premature aging might be safe territory. Picking up the phone, my hands are shaking so much that it takes me three tries to punch in the numbers correctly.
“Hello?” she answers
“Hi Mom.”
“Emma. What’s wrong?”
Because I rarely call—except during times of crisis—Cecile always anticipates disaster at the sound of my voice.
“My hair is turning gray.”
Her audible sigh of relief floats across state lines.
“That’s it?”
“Yeah. I was wondering when you started going gray.”
“Mid-twenties, but I didn’t wait for all of it to change. When I was twenty-six, I dyed it for the first time. That’s the nice thing about going gray—you can always change the color.”
“I just feel like I’m too young for this to be happening.”
“No different from usual, right?”
The tone of her voice has turned sharp, like a scalpel. For a moment I’m speechless, as though a palpable edge behind her words has severed my vocal cords.
“Oh, Emma,” she says, cutting into the silence.
Attempting to keep my voice neutral, I resist the urge to fight with her.
“Well, nice talking to you Mom,” I say. “I’ll try calling again in a few weeks.”
Then I hang up. Our conversations always end this way.
“Sounds like that went well,” says Helen.
“The usual.”
“At least you didn’t lose it. What’d she say about the hair?”
“Mid-twenties. I’m doomed.”
“Well, you can always dye it.”
“That’s what she said.”
“If I’m starting to sound like your mother, then I must be getting older, too,” says Helen, smirking.
“Thank goodness I’m not alone,” I say.
“You’re definitely not alone,” says Helen. “After a certain point, our bodies all go downhill. In fact, you just reminded me of someone I met recently during my geriatrics rotation. A few weeks ago, this great old woman said to me, ‘Honey, enjoy your good looks while you’ve still got ’em. One minute you’re the sexiest thing since sliced bread, and next thing you know, you’re a dried up old prune wearing diapers.’ She totally cracked me up.”
“Yeah. She sounds completely hysterical,” I say.
“Come on, Emma,” says Helen. “Lighten up.”
“Actually, if things work out, I’m going to darken up—my hair, that is.”
“Just don’t dye it green,” says Helen. “This city has enough crazy punks already.”
“I’ll try not to.”
Urged to action by the weight of mortality and thoughts of “dyeing,” I take a moment to send a long-overdue e-mail before dealing with my traitorous head.
Subject: Better late than never
Dear Grace,
My hair is now turning gray with a vengeance. Since this could be the beginning of the end for me, I realized that I’d better hurry up and send you this e-mail. Sorry I didn’t write sooner. Life in NY has been pretty crazy. I managed to break up with Thomas, but staying away from him hasn’t been easy. How are things going with BJ and Alvin?
I miss you.
Love,
Emma
After hitting “send,” I glance at the clock radio on my desk. My next appointment with Aimee is scheduled for two hours from now, giving me more than enough time to swing by the nearest pharmacy, a Duane Reade on the corner.
Arriving in the hair care aisle, I take a moment to study the multitude of dyes arrayed on the shelves. Initially I’m overwhelmed and unsure of which brand to purchase. Then I spot a box depicting a beautiful woman with titian tresses. Ooh. I’ve always wanted to be a red head.
“Pick me,” the woman whispers seductively, “and your hair will look just like mine.”
She’s very persuasive.
After purchasing the box and hurrying home, I don the clear plastic gloves enclosed in the package and apply the pungent, purple concoction strategically to small clumps of hair, covering anything that’s not brown—and a lot that is. Presumably, the violet-hued dye will turn auburn over the next 30 minutes, as promised by the muse on the box. Settling into a kitchen chair with the “Styles” section of the New York Times, I keep an eye on the clock while perusing the weekly marriage announcements, scouting for familiar names. Initially the articles are fairly uninteresting, until I find….
“Oh, no!” I exclaim. “That is so unfair.”
Helen peeks over my shoulder.
“Life is unfair. What is it?”
“Look.”
I toss the paper at her.
“Hey, you don’t have to throw it at me,” she says. “Why are you being so…oh…I see.”
The picture of Alex and Samantha is so enormous that Helen spots it immediately.
“Alex looks hot,” she says.
“Great,” I mutter.
Blond-haired, blue-eyed Alex does look handsome, and happy, in the black and white photograph.
Thoroughly demoralized, I pick up the front page of the newspaper, trying to lose myself in the depression of world affairs. Distracted by the article about my ex-ex-boyfriend, I forget to watch the clock.
“Hey, Emma, hasn’t it been like, forty-five minutes since you put that gunk in your hair?” Helen eventually calls from her bedroom.
It has, and then some.
“I’m going for a really dark red color,” I say.
After showering off the dye, I study my head in the mirror. Oh, no. The color isn’t even close to red. Electric purple is more like it.
“What now?” asks Helen, when I start sobbing.
“It’s my hair,” I say miserably.
Helen marches down the hallway and into the bathroom. For a moment she stares at me from behi
nd, shaking her head.
“Emma Silberlight, you are such a valeditztorian.”
Yeah, back in high school, Helen was the one who came up with that moniker. After placing her hands on my shoulders, she turns my tear-stained face in her direction.
“Enough with the hysteria, Emma. Pull yourself together. It’s just hair. You can dye it again, whenever you like. Plus we live in New York. No one’s gonna notice or care whether you have pink, purple, or polka-dotted hair.”
“But Alex….”
“You don’t want me to slap you across the face, do you?”
“No, but….”
“Good. Now, forget about Alex. It wouldn’t matter if they’d published his wedding announcement on the front page of the New York fucking Times. The man was a shallow shmuck, remember? You’re lucky he left you.”
Perhaps I’m even luckier that Helen has no tolerance for pathetic blubbering.
“Thanks for reminding me,” I say.
Drying my eyes, I tell myself to toughen up. Then I notice it’s nearly time for my appointment. Who knows? Maybe Aimee will respond better to a tutor with purple hair.
Heading to her apartment, I attempt to slink along in the shadows. Yet despite my best efforts to become one with the darkness, sunlight keeps chasing my head, brilliantly illuminating my purple highlights. I can’t escape it. On my westward journey, my crazy coif is reflected back at me through the glass of every shop window I pass.
Yet just as Helen predicted, even though my appearance is totally outrageous, no fellow New Yorkers bother glancing in my direction. By the time I arrive at the candy store next to Aimee’s apartment, I’m not sure whether it’s good or bad that the human beings in this city couldn’t care less about my bawdy new look. Busy talking on the telephone, the shopkeeper at the candy store doesn’t even make eye contact as he rings up my purchase. Perhaps Aimee’s doorman does a quick double take when he sees me, but it happens so fast I might’ve imagined it.
Arriving at the green door on the fourth floor, I knock several times, and eventually Maria opens up. This time she’s wearing headphones blaring loud Spanish music, audible from several feet away. While I’m tempted to advise her to turn down the volume, if only to protect the remaining cilia in her ear canals, I keep my thoughts to myself. Since I’m sure she’s not home, I don’t bother asking for Mrs. Santos. Maria then shows me to Aimee’s room, where I again find the child reading with a flashlight under her comforter.