“How the fuck should I know, Levit? You were there with her—I was in my bed!” he’d spat out in alarm.
“Chill out, grandpa. I meant when you called them all at curfew time or whatever. Forget I asked.”
Relaxing, Abbott had let out a yawn that sounded savored.
“I don’t know, fine, I guess. I didn’t pay much attention, frankly. She sounded like she usually does—trying hard to sound like a bigger ditz than she really is. What happened at the club?” He was calm again, breathing evenly, speaking quieter. I guess Stephanie was still sleeping.
“It’s okay, you can go back to sleep, it isn’t that big a deal,” I’d placated quickly, my head dizzy once I spotted Jamie as he made his way out of the busy hotel restaurant.
“Hmm, okay, your wish is my command, spring chicken. So anyway, on to what’s really important—how’s it sleeping with Jamie over there?” Abbott had chuckled before roaring another yawn.
As a matter of fact, thus far, it hadn’t been at all obvious that we were roommates. The night before, after the blow out at the club, he’d walked me to the room, but then, still visibly flustered and distracted, he got a phone call and excused himself from my presence, saying something about wanting to take a walk before backing his way to the elevator bank, leaving me to stand at the door ominously marked “666” all by myself. I had successfully fallen asleep by the time he was back, and when I woke up, he was already up and dressed, typing fiercely away on his laptop at the desk. I wasn’t sure if he’d even slept in our king-size bed, next to me.
“Did I wake you?” he’d asked when he heard me trying to quietly wiggle my way out of bed, tugging to keep my robe closed and tied around my waist over my pajamas. He’d asked this without turning around, his bony back facing me the entire time.
“No, no, it’s fine,” I’d croaked through my dry throat. I’d tried to squint at the screen over his shoulder, trying to spy, but without my lenses in, even he was a blurry, ragged-edged blob dressed in black.
“Oh, you know…I don’t know, it’s all good,” I had told Abbott, feeling that wildly inappropriate giddiness take root in my belly at the mere memory of the exchange. “Anyway, sorry I woke you. Go back to sleep, we’ll figure it out.”
Our kids slowly pairing up, it was soon obvious that Jamie and I were going to be spending the day together. Paz and Veronika were missing; I’d sent Ofir up earlier and got the report back that Paz was too hungover to do much of anything (and that Veronika was going to stay at her side with a bucket).
Now, for the past hour, Jamie and I’d been walking along the Seine (trailed by Liam and Jordan) in the vague search of the Museum of Modern Art. Cold and wet, I’m not sure if either of us cared anymore.
“And that ‘Teacher of the Year’ thing? No way am I going to win that, are you kidding?! That one has ‘Abbott in perpetuity’ written all over it, mark my words! He’s been winning for years. And yes, I do in fact think I’m a terrible teacher,” I answered Jamie, proud of my core for helping me manage to remain upright when I skidded on some mud. Perhaps I’m stronger than I look, I thought. “Well, maybe not terrible, but not great either.”
“Why?”
“Why I’m a bad teacher?”
“Why you think you’re a bad teacher?”
“Ah, well, because Ofir is dropping hints about wanting to quit dance, and Veronika won’t tell me where she’s going to college so, for all I know, he wants to go back to Israel to card Palestinians at checkpoints, and she is going to Baruch to study accounting or something. Honestly, what’s the point if your best students don’t follow their calling, the path…or I don’t know, enter your cliché of choice here,” I sighed, melodramatically. My throat was sore, but the medicine had dried up my sinuses for the day; the result was strange and dull, so everything was muted, even my own thoughts, making me talk in circles. Or maybe such was Jamie’s effect on me. “When you spend years trying to get through to them and they still refuse to get it right…. I don’t know, the point is, I can’t seem to do enough for anyone, even my very best kids.”
“You teach history though—”
“That’s not the point…or that is the point….”
Jamie seemed to consider this for a moment. I dug my hands deep inside my pockets, returning to my hunched posture as I waited. These shivers seemed to be my new permanent state of being, a bona fide new characteristic.
“Sometimes it’s not about you,” he finally answered.
Before I could figure out if I should indeed be comforted or offended, Liam caught up with us and asked if we could take a picture of him and Jordan. Jamie reacted first, swiftly grabbing the camera from his hands. After the boys kissed and posed as he snapped a few frames, we resumed our formation.
“Veronika, by the way—she idolizes you,” I prompted when Jamie still failed to add anything to his estimation of my level of self-absorption.
“Oh man, don’t you start with that! Not after last night and that girl, Paz,” he laughed. “With Veronika…there is a lot going on, trust me. More to that girl than meets the eye, so to speak.” I could see him shrug out of the corner of my eye. “She’s great at what she does, no doubt. I can send her out on auditions tomorrow and I’m sure she’d land a tour to keep her busy for the next two years. Maybe she could even take some of my gigs. But she has to want it. Who am I to tell her what to do,” he summed up with another indifferent shrug. “Now, Ofir I only met here. I understand he’s a dancer?”
“What Veronika is on the guitar, Ofir is in dance. I’m neither a guitarist of any caliber, nor am I ballerina, but the whole school knows they are the best at what they do. So is Paz, by the way. She is an actress, as you may have gathered. All of them are the envy of every incoming freshman.” I hadn’t noticed when my voice had gotten high and thin. “If Paz will forego her Yale scholarship to join the circus, I’m fucking quitting.”
“Look, first of all, no one is officially quitting, including you. Not yet, anyway. But hey, don’t we all get pressured by life to do the more practical thing? Who knows what’s right. Look at me—after ten years of playing, going gig to gig, I had to eventually do the practical thing myself—become a high school teacher,” he chuckled. “Why are you so invested in this, anyway?”
Without agreeing to, we stopped to eye our soggy map at the same time.
“Believe it or not, in my family, becoming a teacher is not so much doing the practical thing as doing the exact opposite. Kids of immigrants of the likes of my kinfolk are expected to be doctors, lawyers, accountants, et cetera. I was on the infamous med school track until college. I guess this is me rebelling, and misery loves company!” I let out a laugh that was evidently too loud, at least judging by the startled expression painted on the face of an elderly lady who sat feeding the pigeons on a bench nearby. She eyed me, sternly. “I think we’ve been walking in the wrong direction,” I interrupted my own rambling train of thought, handing the map off to Liam.
My beautiful Liam: a violin player of sturdy stature, with eyes so blue, you’d think they were contacts. When he’d first started at Talents, he was a short and puny little thing; now he was nearly six feet tall. I felt a small surge of pride well up within my chest thinking this, as if he grew so tall because I watered him. He examined the soaked piece of paper closely before he spoke.
“Yeah, I think we were supposed to walk that way,” he nodded, pointing in the opposite direction along the Seine.
“Let’s ask a native,” I announced, too aggressively, trying to hang on to my teacher hat a little too desperately. I couldn’t fail everybody. “Excuse me,” I called to the old lady on the bench, waving at her with an apologetic hand. “Ma’am, I’m so sorry I don’t speak French but, could you point us in the direction of the Museum of Modern Art?”
The woman considered me for a long minute, moving her head up and down, taking in my damp coat, my increasingly frizzy hair lying limp on my shoulders.
“Vous porc américain stupide!”
she finally said before spitting at me; perhaps a sniper in her past life (or maybe even this one), she was successful at aiming for my foot. “Gros porcs d’Américains!” she added, eyeing my compatriots.
“What?” I squeezed out of my throat, peering at her from behind my wet hair, thrust forward from the shock.
“She called you a ‘stupid American pig,’” Jordan timidly translated, tentatively hugging my shoulder, so as to shield me away from the old woman who was now rising from her seat, albeit with some difficulty, leaning on a cane. My senses at once sharp, I noticed that her gray bun was beautifully in tact. For a split second, I registered myself feeling jealous of the woman’s resolve, even if she was a xenophobic racist. “And then she called us all ‘fat American pigs,’ which, I guess means she’s blind,” Jordan added.
“Oh God, let’s go,” I heard Jamie urge before I felt my right hand’s fingers instinctively intertwine with his, his hand pulling me away from the river. His ring dug into my skin.
“I’m sorry, I guess this particular Parisian just felt she needed to confirm a stereotype. Are you okay?” Jamie asked when we reached the set of steps we’d need to climb to get to the street above, away from the banks of the grimy Seine. He stopped me in my tracks and placed his hands gently on my upper arms without speaking when I couldn’t find the words to answer, my cold medicine undoubtedly slowing me down. He looked me in the eye without flinching. George had never been capable of eye contact that long, that penetrating, despite the hours he’d spent meditating to improve his concentration and focus.
I looked back over my shoulder before accepting the challenge; the lady who spit at me was still trying to stand up.
When I returned to Jamie, I saw him as if for the first time: not only were his eyes so willful, so insistent that it looked as if their rims were lined with the blackest kohl eyeliner imaginable (leaving their whites truly snow-white), but his jaw was also almost improbably square and strong. I moved my gaze down to only further distract myself by noting his Adam’s apple, which was prominent. Something inside me felt as if it were dissolving, melting, threatening to seep down my thighs. It’s probably just the adrenaline leaving your bloodstream, I told myself. Still, I knew I had to move, or else I was sure our lips would lock; it seemed but a breath away, after all—inevitable, unavoidable.
“I’m fine,” I finally mumbled. “I’m fine, don’t worry. Now, what were you saying about doing the practical thing?”
Chapter Sixteen: Too Difficult
“Look, let’s say you have a kid, and he or she, or whatever, doesn’t do what it is you want him to do—he is just not capable of fulfilling your expectations. Does that make you a bad parent? Does that make him a bad kid?” Jamie asked, having single-handedly picked up our conversation hours later, after I’d had time to hope that he’d long forgotten about my self-centered perspective on it all. We sat next to each other aboard the metro on our way to the Eiffel Tower after dinner (at which I ate traditionally little despite it being paid for by Nicole, using her corporate credit card). Paz and Veronika had rejoined us and now sat across the aisle, though Jamie made it a point to avoid Paz at all costs; Veronika, it would seem, was collateral damage.
My stomach growling, I considered this. He seemed interested.
“Well, yes and no,” I eventually nodded, trying to estimate what would sound better to an ear that wasn’t mine. To George, my taking all the blame and responsibility would be admirable, while Javier would frown in sincere sadness for my plight, forever kinder to me than I. “I guess it doesn’t, actually, but if it happened to me, I am pretty sure that that’s exactly what I’d think, or at least how I’d feel,” I admitted with a shrug. “That I’m a bad parent, not that the child is bad, of course. The adult is the responsible party. I would’ve failed that child in some way. It’s the same with teaching: you set goals, they come short, you fail.”
Jamie laughed. I saw that his eyes were on Abbott, who was gesturing the number of stops remaining from the other end of the carriage.
To my right, Will and Andrew were pretending to surf on the thin piece of metal that was the sole partition between (or rather the juncture of) two cars, riveted by the structure missing the door we’d expect to interconnect them. Their fascinated faces were glorious. There were teenagers in there, after all; this was an easy fact to forget sometimes. I reached for my phone to snap a picture, but before I could, a text message from George materialized on my screen.
“You academics, always so…precise in your expectations—so pedantic,” Jamie chuckled.
I’d heard similar assessments out of George’s mouth, of course. I tried to shake them, tried to remember the way Javier saw me when evaluating the same traits, instead. ¡Mi perfeccionista perfecta! he’d always remark with a smile only part dejected, his accent significantly different from the one I’d been learning in school all my life, more difficult to plow through.
Suddenly cold and breathless, I shoved my phone back into my pocket.
“Is that a jab at us academics on behalf of all you performing arts folks?”
My response was so late, I wasn’t even sure if it was still required, but it felt good to use my voice.
“Don’t look at me—I’m too new to get involved in those interdepartmental politics,” Jamie answered anyway.
With a sigh resolute and aimed at not thinking about the phone burning a hole in my jacket, I leaned back in my seat, settling in next to Jamie, our shoulders touching for only a second before one of us moved a fraction of an inch away from the other; I can’t say who was first.
“You were saying earlier, at the Seine, before I got called a stupid American pig, that you decided to become a teacher only recently?” I asked only to keep the conversation going. My mind reeling, I traced and retraced my steps that last morning in New York. I definitely left the ring in the kitchen.
“Teaching high school is hardly a calling for me. I love what I do, which is to say I love to write and play, but it’s hard to go from gig to gig when you’re told you have a baby on the way,” he said matter-of-factly.
“Oh, a baby! Wow! Sure, sure,” I managed through a painful swallow. On top of shivering from the cold, and being breathless on account of the texts, I now also felt dirty and in need of a long, scalding shower. “So you’re between apartments and there’s a baby—wow, that’s a lot!” I cried, possibly too loudly. The height to which Veronika’s tortured eyebrows were rising just across the way was alarming. People between us running to and fro, too few of them adhering to American standards of hygiene, I could’ve sworn I saw her shake her head at me.
“Well, yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”
I nodded, knowingly, understanding nothing.
In an instant, my eyes fell from his hair, to his jaw, to his folded arms. His left palm hidden underneath his right arm (clad, as usual, in his oversized leather jacket), I had to look away, focusing immediately on the linoleum at my feet, instead; it was grimy and thoroughly worn.
“Next stop,” I heard Abbott announce from somewhere deep in the crowd of Parisians.
Lightheaded, I was happy for an excuse to jump up and begin counting heads, delivering the news to each one, individually.
“Champ de Mars/Tour Eiffel—that’s our stop,” I butchered maniacally, to the amusement of those around me, including Abbott, himself. Stephanie remained stone-faced, which I now suspected was just her perennial expression (likely thanks to some upstate dermatologist).
Steering everyone out one by one, I held the metro doors open with my back a few seconds longer than was likely appreciated; when I finally released them, I saw angry looks glide past me as the train whined on its way out of the station. Mesmerized by the contorted faces swimming by me, I hung back, trailing behind our group, watching wearily as Abbott directed at the top of the stairs and Jamie shepherded at the bottom.
~ ~ ~
My mother’s voice sounded more breathless than was customary. Speaking Russian, she refused to finish a thought, hurrying from one unnecessarily pompous expression to the next.
“Do you know what my blood pressure is today? Do you even care? They should’ve let me die in that hospital in Ladispoli—it’d be better than dealing with my children’s impulsive decisions!” Poor Vlad was always lumped in with me and my lack of judgment. “Do you ever think about anyone else but yourself?”
I’d learned to nod my way through these soliloquies. As she spoke, I looked up into the intensely lit sky.
I had mistakenly expected the Eiffel Tower to be more romantic at night, but it was just a really tall heap of metal decorated in tinsel, its lights too bright to attract attention to anything but themselves. We’d been deposited here in the rain the other day in the daylight, but it was tackier at night. Immigrants of suspect legal status peddling faux designer purses and watches did not add any romance to the atmosphere. The view from my room with Jamie did more for me.
Our kids took turns taking pictures underneath the infamous Tower—between its wide legs. I watched as Jamie juggled everyone’s cameras. His stance was broad, his boots muddy. Just steps away, Paz was standing next to Abbott—her arms rigid across her chest, defensive or defiant, her hip popped out toward him; whatever the discussion, she was clearly losing. Veronika was at her side.
“Did you really not leave the ring, Helen? Did you really leave him for good in the first place, then? Really? Forever? Why do I have to hear from your deranged fiancé at all? He’s accusing you of stealing this thing. He’s threatening to sue!”
I squinted up, trying to see the tip of the Tower, but the smog hid it.
“Mom, didn’t you want me to leave George?” I asked in English, speaking to the sky above.
“Of course! He’s an egotistical mama’s boy. But you can’t just do this—you cannot spend seven years with the person and then up and leave…and flee the country! It’s unfair to those around you! We can’t be expected to be held accountable for your actions. He can’t reach you now, so he’s calling me, raising my blood pressure. You’re just being selfish going on vacation right now at all, Helen,” my mother puffed. Her voice shook a little, but not from tears—it was adrenaline. I recognized it.
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