Effortless

by Marina Raydun

  Having driven some sixty miles northwest from the Stonehenge, we’d witnessed the sky change guard en route—the sun was now out and the drizzle seemed distant. With my window open just a crack the entire ride, I’d managed to ingest lungfuls of the fresh spring air that the sunshine seemed to carry with it. For me, it was never really synonymous with romance; instead, it smelled like anxiety. Perhaps this was due to all the final exams I’d taken over my academic career—I’ve been conditioned. Every season brings with it its own set of neuroses.

  A little too sober with the lack of sleep, I knew I had to begin my mental preparations for the flight back—namely, the landing. No matter what high hopes I’d been silly enough to temporarily harbor on my way to JFK, my life in New York was waiting for me unchanged—same debts, same prospects. Alla served as a timely wakeup call, a reminder that, regardless of my present location, it was all still the same. If anything, I’d been busy complicating my fairly simple life further while away. This hardly constituted a fresh start.

  Eager to disembark, I stumbled out of the bus with weak knees and an abdomen full of butterflies.

  “Everything okay back there?” I asked as soon as I picked up my vibrating phone, seeing that it was Jamie. I’d begun to hate the damn apparatus by then (the lack of ability to hide anywhere so long as it was on your person), but I’d also been looking forward to hearing this particular voice. I was glad that we’d hurriedly exchanged numbers before I had to leave him behind with our two students high as the moon itself (as well as Veronika, the faithful).

  “Yes, yes, the guys are sleeping it off. When I left them, they were practically cuddling,” Jamie rushed to explain. “I just got back to my room in hopes of a nap.”

  “Where is Veronika?”

  “In her room. She’s probably doing her calculus homework or something. Ms. Levit, she’s not interested in me,” he sighed in mock-disappointment. “Keeps talking about you, actually. How effortlessly pretty you are, what a ‘cool dresser’ you are—and yes, that’s a direct quote. I’m almost jealous.”

  “Oh,” I mumbled as I squinted with the sun shifting over the Abbey nearby, my kids slowly snaking inside the Roman Baths.

  “Just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  Planting my sunglasses on my nose, I couldn’t prevent a scoff from escaping out of my throat.

  This was just cruel.

  “Really?”

  I was silly.

  “Yeah, why not?”

  Indeed, why not, I shrugged to myself before remembering indeed why.

  “In that case, I’m okay. Would be better if you were here with me…us, I mean, of course. The kids would sure have more fun,” I dared, waving our students on inside the Baths. I snatched my pass from Nicole’s sweaty grip and mouthed that I would join them in a bit.

  My heels whistling against the stones underneath them, I elbowed my way out of the spontaneous crowd encircling a street performer in the center of the square; the man was just breaking into a dizzying number involving juggling at least six balls, from what I could see.

  “I wish I was there. Or is it were there? I’m never sure of the proper usage,” I heard Jamie sigh, holding on to his voice over the applause erupting behind me. I turned over my shoulder and saw that the juggler was now atop a unicycle, colorful balls high up in the air.

  I rounded the corner and slid down a cool wall made of stone.

  “Well, it’s nice here. The weather is gorgeous. There is an Abbey…,” I reported, looking up at the clear blue sky through my sunglasses.

  “And here I am making do with a twin bed.”

  A familiar rush made its way through my blood stream, settling between my legs.

  “Hmm.”

  Closing my eyes for a brief moment, I could’ve sworn it was George I heard inadvertently blowing air into the receiver with a simple exhalation. Alarmed, I instantly flicked my eyelids open to make it stop.

  “When will you be back?” I heard him ask.

  I consulted my watch.

  “We are leaving here at three, so I’d say between five and six or so—”

  “You know, I only agreed to come here for you. When I ran into Abbott in the bathroom a few weeks ago and he told me of his terrible plight of losing chaperones, he said the two of us were his dream chaperones, for a reason only known to him. He said he was hoping to get you on board, so I said I’d go then and there. Just like that—like a bet. I took a gamble. I had a feeling you’d agree. A sixth sense.”

  His words sounded like they came to him easily. Always. It seemed as though he didn’t have to spend his time agonizing over phrasing the way I often did. It was as if the moment he was ready to speak—he spoke.

  “You’re married….”

  My words sounded as rehearsed as they were.

  “Well, about that—”

  “No, really, don’t screw with me—you’re married,” I repeated for my own sake. “But I’ll play along—I came only because I knew you were going. I was leaving my fiancé anyway, so don’t flatter yourself any more than you have to—”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it—”

  “Right. So there you go. Why would you say you came because of me when you’re married?”

  “Because it’s the truth, Helen,” he said. It sounded as if this much should have been obvious.

  I sucked in my lip, biting down until I drew blood.

  “I remember the first time I saw you. I was waiting for a bus, knowing full well that I should probably just hail a cab with all the shit I was carrying. And you were at another bus stop just across the street, your bike at your side. You had a red umbrella….”

  I’d stopped listening, my heart racing, chasing its own tail, twisting in on itself deep inside, wasting energy on the futile exercise.

  “You saw me, then?”

  “I did.”

  Could it really be that simple, that inevitable? After all, a person shouldn’t be physiologically permitted to expand so much of her energy contemplating another from afar without it being eventually reciprocated, right? It simply must be, then. It’d be pointless otherwise.

  “It was raining—”

  “Yes, hard!” he laughed. I imagined him lying on the narrow bed in a room that was a mirror reflection of mine. “My…wife was in labor, and her mother kept texting me, as if that’d get me there any faster…as if my presence could change anything at all, anyway. My hair was sticking to my face, and my backpack felt even heavier than it actually was…. And I regretted even opening that stupid umbrella, but you stood there so beautiful and still…. I recognized you from your yearbook picture—”

  “That was the second time I saw you, actually. That first faculty meeting back in August was the first,” I admitted with my eyes on the Abbey. “Part of your hair was loosely braided, then,” I added, as if specific proof were requested. “I liked it.”

  “I see.”

  “Did you say your wife was in labor that day at the bus stop?”

  “I did.”

  “So you were married already….”

  “I was—”

  “And you still looked me up in the yearbook?”

  “Yes.”

  Chapter Twenty-Six: “I have a Dream”

  I never did get to see the Roman Baths.

  Instead, I walked in somewhat of a circle around the main square, popping briefly into a souvenir shop to treat myself to a mug with a quote by the great Jane Austen herself stenciled on it. There is nothing like staying at home for real comfort, it said. I’m still not sure why I bought it; perhaps out of sadomasochism.

  Home.

  For almost a week, hotel rooms had been my default home, my students—my crazy family, Jamie—my partner in an arranged marriage. But, in less than forty-eight hours, all of that would change. No matter Jamie’s quasi-confessions, we’d all soon board a plane out of Heathrow and eventually land in JFK, that much was certain. My students’ parents would rush to embrace their children when we’d final
ly emerge in the terminal, our passports freshly stamped, our luggage in hand. Jamie would go back to his wife and child. I, in the meantime, would likely be losing my resolve to board my bus bound for the suburbs as earlier (and resolutely) promised to myself.

  And not long after our return, all the Veronikas, the Liams, the Wisdoms, and Ofirs (the kids I’d watched grow up, always coming just short of what they surely deserve) would be moving on with their lives. A mere stepping-stone, I would stay behind and continue to play Mad-Libs with my own lesson plans year after year, trying to pay back my student loans without having to live like an indentured servant. Their lives were just beginning, mine was merely continuing. Alla, how exactly was I expected to start anew, begin a new chapter?

  Deep in futile thought, I met up with my group at the appointed time and place and counted the right number of heads ready to board the bus heading back to London.

  “How’s Jamie doing back there? Misses you, I bet?” Abbott stalled, one foot on the first step up the bus, last one to board besides me.

  I rolled my tired eyes, flushing immediately.

  “What is your deal, Abbott? Are you trying to mate us? He’s married, for fuck’s sake!” I was speaking too fast, my heart egging me on.

  Abbott stood too close, as he usually did. The mint of his gum was overpowering, even to my still congested nose.

  “Oh, my spring chicken, you two are young, presumably healthy, consenting adults. I am confident that you can figure it all out.”

  I unbuttoned my coat and threw one foot up on the first step, next to Abbott’s.

  “Okay…so I’ll go try to decipher that, but you have to stop telling everyone my business—”

  “I haven’t told everyone, just a few interested parties,” Abbott corrected with a joke of a smile.

  “Like Paz?” I scoffed, heaving myself up and away.

  Abbott pulled me back down by my sleeve.

  “What else did she say?”

  “Paz? She said, ‘he’s a nice guy, Ms. Levit.’”

  “Who?”

  “Jamie.”

  “You see?! She’s a smart girl! Anything else?”

  I shook my head.

  Abbott seemed to chew this over, giving his jaws (and his gum) a workout.

  “Well, I agree with her conclusion,” he finally nodded. “You should pursue that.”

  ~ ~ ~

  The heavy silence inside the bus was only occasionally perforated by sporadic snores of its passengers. Perhaps Nicole’s delivery of historical trivia took more out of these kids than my own did on daily basis. Or maybe the same spring air that put mostly dread and anxiety into me, tired out their young and hormonal bodies.

  I did my best to resist calling Jamie back for fear of my juvenile infatuation developing more uncontrollable symptoms if we took the conversation any further. To help, I shut off my cell phone altogether before gathering my knees to my chest in my empty back row, with my coat doubling as a pillow behind me. I rested my head against it and closed my eyes, listening (quite intently) as the bus tried to hum me its dull but rhythmic lullaby. The moan of it, the vibration, must’ve been effective because when I opened my eyes again, we were back in the thick city traffic. Our tired vehicle groaned at every sudden stop, louder at each subsequent light, it seemed. Frankly, it sounded like it couldn’t wait to rid itself of us, though most passengers aboard were oblivious to the fact, slowly coming to, stretching their arms up and over their heads.

  The time I’d quoted to Jamie earlier was all wrong—it was past six when I stepped foot in the lobby, which meant I had less than an hour to get ready for our highly anticipated night at the theatre. We were going to the infamous West End—the pinnacle of my dreams for many of my kids, including Paz; she did promise me that she was going to become a star, after all.

  Busying myself to prevent having to so much as think about Jamie just on the other side of the wall, I threw my things on my thin bed (cringing when I heard my Jane Austen mug make contact with the wall) and kicked off my shoes. I ran the shower, giving myself exactly five minutes to lather and rinse. Still damp, I then rushed about my tiny room, gamely wrestling my preselected theatre outfit out of my small suitcase before tossing it on the bed as well. All motion, I turned on the light over my vanity mirror, unzipped my small makeup case, and flipped open my laptop (this was more out of habit than for an actual reason, I immediately admitted to myself).

  Before I could slather my face with moisturizer in place of actual primer (which I forgot to pack), my Skype ringer sounded out of the computer’s tiny speaker.

  “Mom? What’s up?” I asked as soon as her concerned face appeared in front of me, tiny squares making up a whole. Her fine, reddish hair was as disheveled as I remembered it from my last visit a few weeks ago. It was cropped short, but still it managed to fall out of place every chance it got. Her hazel eyes were watery.

  “What? Nothing. I must have the flu or something. I have a fever, I think,” she admitted in Russian, after a hearty sneeze and some dry coughing. “But I don’t want to worry you.”

  I smoothed out my foundation with my fingertips, working to blend it into my hairline.

  “That’s why you called? To hack into the microphone and then say that you don’t want to worry me?” I muttered, speaking English, the way I’d always insisted on answering my parents.

  My mother sighed—an exercise perfected over her fifty-five years, requiring no language skill at all.

  “Well, you weren’t picking up your phone….”

  “Shit,” I spat out. I threw down my brand new Clinique bronzer compact (the one I was planning to keep for myself all along, anyway) and grabbed my purse. My phone refused to turn on. “Yeah, sorry, I forgot to charge it and then I turned it off. Anyway, I guess it’s dead now. But those calls are expensive. Have Vlad e-mail me if anything is up. Or, let’s do what we’re doing now—Skype.”

  Blending my eye shadows, going for more smudgy than smoky, due in the lobby in ten minutes regardless of the state of my makeup, I was speaking fast. My mother watched.

  “You look good with makeup on. You should do it more often. Maybe a brighter lip?”

  My twin inside the mirror looked stoutly back at me. Her resolve was present, though I couldn’t read its purpose.

  “Thanks,” I nodded, my eyes on the mirror, her eyes on me. “Mom, I have to go,” I said in Russian—an offering. “I’ll charge my phone, don’t worry.”

  “Good,” she answered, stifling a sneeze before ending the call.

  I remained in my seat, carefully lining and relining my lips. They were going to be scarlet now, as per my mother’s recommendation. George felt that makeup, much like push-up bras, served as false advertisement, so he probably would not approve. Javier, on the other hand, liked whatever I liked. I was yet to discover where Jamie stood on this subject (as well as any other real subject, for that matter, really).

  A knock on my door startled me, jerking my hand just as I tried to emphasize whatever traces of the cupid’s bow that my own lips naturally possessed. I wiped the resulting smudge with my pinky and rushed to answer it. I snatched my coat off the bed en route.

  “She has legs!” Abbott cheered when I yanked the door open. “The whole time I’ve known you, have you ever worn a skirt, spring chicken? Stef, take a picture! It’s like spotting a unicorn!”

  “Or the Loch Ness Monster,” Stephanie giggled in an attempt at a joke.

  Before I could protest, Abbott threw his arm around me. Immediately, the smell of his coffee made me dizzy. The flash went off just as Jamie stepped out of his room, a mere foot of a divide between our doorframes.

  Dressed for either a Goth ball or a Bar Mitzvah (or perhaps a Goth-themed Bar Mitzvah), he wore black pants, a white button-down shirt (with the sleeves rolled up to expose the burgundy roses on his arm), and a black, fully buttoned vest. His hair was down but for the one effortless braid on the right, and his eyes looked as if they were lined with kohl, though they pr
obably weren’t. His wedding band did its best to catch whatever light it could in the dim hallway.

  “You look nice,” he told me, appraisingly.

  “Thank you,” I said with palpable conceit, taking myself by surprise. My vulgar lips stretched into a modest smile to compensate.

  “My sweet lovebirds, the children are waiting down there,” Abbott teased, motioning for the three of us to follow him toward the stairs.

  “Abbott—”

  “Okay, okay, Helen, I’m just kidding around. Jesus, relax!”

  In forced silence, we all marched down to the lobby, our footsteps silent on the carpet.

  Nicole was the only person not dressed up to the nines. This was probably because she’d been taking groups to see Mamma Mia twice a month for years. Clad in her customary jeans and an ill-fitting sweatshirt, she was burdened with cameras and phones of various makes and colors, taking pictures of all our stars, all of them decked out as if they were the ones who were going to be performing that night. If only Paz were here, I caught myself thinking.

  “All right, we’re ready to go. If anyone’s not here, please raise your hand,” Abbott, the troop-leader, joked, charging through the lobby toward the automatic doors. He briefly stopped to compliment Sophie on the magnificence of her Afro.

  “Feeling better?” I asked her on my way out the door, at the tail end of the group.

  She looked frazzled, as she often tended to, this tiny, fragile bird. She looked precious in her emerald cocktail dress.

  “Yeah, Ms. Levit, why?” she hiccupped. “Oh, you mean when I was sick yesterday? It must’ve been like a 24-hour bug thing.”

  ~ ~ ~

  Most of the kids sitting around me had worked professional gigs before, so a jukebox musical wasn’t something I would have expected to stimulate them. And, predictably, they weren’t visibly excited as they took their seats inside the theatre, snapping only the most somber duck-faced selfies before the lights were lowered and a redheaded girl on stage began to sing, I have a dream.

  Jamie’s bony elbow shared an armrest with my fleshy one. His arm didn’t budge when I tried to encroach or when I carefully turned my head in its direction. In the dark auditorium, with the sleeves up, the flowers on it looked black. Doing my best not to take the presence of the newly sober Ofir on my left for granted, I let my right hand seek Jamie’s in the dark, and by the time the opening chords of “Lay All Your Love On Me” filled the room, our fingers were intertwined. It was only our pinkies at first, but soon his long fingers, his wide palm, covered mine completely, the cool metal of his ring hot against my skin. It was slow to move away when the house lights grew brighter and the fifteen-minute intermission was announced.