Piece of Mind

by Michelle Adelman

  “It’s for dramatic effect. Heightened senses?”

  “And where’s my hair?”

  “It’s not done yet.”

  She nodded and made eye contact. For a second it was like she was looking inside of me. “I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Frank.”

  She had never held my gaze for this long.

  “Thanks,” I said. “I guess that’s what I’m supposed to say.”

  “The good news is that now that the Frank business is over, you can get busy doing the important business. You finally got the portrait done. In your own way, but it still counts. Who knows what else you’re capable of.”

  “Actually, I think I’m supposed to go back to the zoo,” I said. “I think I might have dreamt it.”

  I told her how Dad had mentioned volunteering at the Nature Center, ages ago it had seemed, and then recounted the story of Gus and the girl in white. And the connection to the talk-show host who volunteered with the animals. And Sally. It all felt associated, but it still didn’t feel real.

  “Well, you’re the one who’s always talking about signs and spirits and all that other jazz,” she said. “What more do you want?”

  “Will you go with me?”

  “To the zoo?”

  “If you’d be willing. I want you to see. You can tell me if I’m crazy.”

  “I don’t have to go to the zoo to tell you that,” she said. “But I did always like the penguins. Do they still have penguins?”

  “We can start with the penguins,” I said.

  “Fine,” she said. “I’ll be at the front gate at ten.”

  “Eleven?”

  “Ten thirty, but I’m not waiting past ten thirty-five. No excuses.”

  31

  “TEN THIRTY-TWO,” ENID SAID WHEN I ARRIVED AT THE GATE. “Not bad.”

  “What, you didn’t think I’d make it?” I said. “I set my alarm. Four times. I figured out how to do that. Aren’t you proud of me?”

  “I already got the tickets,” she said. “Ten percent off when you buy online, and I bought two senior ones, so pretend you’re old when you walk through.”

  “You bought my ticket?” I said.

  “Just keep your head down,” she said.

  As promised, we started with the penguins, and as soon as we came within eye level, I started talking.

  “Did you know they’re black and white like that to camouflage themselves—above and below water? They can swim twenty miles per hour. They can actually see underwater. They have to be able to do that—to eat. They’re hunters. I guess they don’t have to hunt here, but they have it in their blood, the killer instinct.”

  “You have to work here,” she said. “I hope you know that.”

  “Right. I’d like to, but they probably wouldn’t take me.”

  She shook her head.

  “What?” I said.

  “You know every cockamamie story about every animal in here. Why the hell wouldn’t they take you?”

  “Maybe they would,” I said.

  “They’d be stupid not to,” Enid said.

  “You’re right.”

  “Of course I am! So draw me a penguin, will you?”

  “Here?” I said.

  “Where else? What am I doing here if not here?”

  “Now?”

  “I’m not planning on staying all day,” she said.

  I took out my sketchbook, I took a seat at the back, and I took a serious approach. It was hard at first, because it was a little dark in there, and I didn’t like the idea of her watching me. But then I found my penguin.

  I tuned out everyone else as I tracked this one little waddler trying to find his way toward the group. They were social, these guys, always traveling in packs, but this one seemed a little outside the intimate circle; he kept trying to catch up and force his way back in.

  “Now, that’s something,” Enid said before I was finished.

  I tore out the paper and handed it to her.

  “Take it,” I said. “I mean, if you want it.”

  “Don’t you want it?”

  “I want you to have it. I think it will go well with Belle.”

  ENID AND I both noticed the coffee cart the moment we stepped outside. We ordered lattes, found spots on a bench, and took sips slowly, as if to savor the moment. I was expecting something sweet, like victory.

  “It’s terrible,” Enid said before I could.

  “I can’t believe I wasted five dollars on this,” I said. “Though if I volunteered here, I bet I’d get a discount.”

  “I bet you would,” she said.

  She pushed a big paper bag toward me.

  “What is this?” I said. “You’re not giving me your valuables, are you? Because I’ll lose them.”

  “Just look inside.”

  It was a calendar sponsored by the Wildlife Conservation Society, and it was glossy, vivid, and beautiful.

  “You said you used to have one on your icebox,” she said. “I got it in the mail because I donated once a few years back. I thought you’d like the pictures.”

  She’d written a note on the bottom too. Call if you need someone. She scrawled out her number and address.

  “It’s perfect,” I said. “I can put it up when I get home.”

  I examined the address. It was only a few blocks from Nate’s place.

  “You know, you live pretty close to me,” I said. “I think it’s probably like a ten-minute walk, maybe less?”

  “Well, I assumed you lived in the neighborhood.”

  “You ever think I could see your home?”

  “What for?” she said. “There’s nothing to see.”

  “Right,” I said, pretending to focus on a red panda. “It was a stupid thought.”

  She took a second.

  “Oh, all right,” she said finally. “Maybe one day.”

  “Like one day next week?”

  “Maybe. I was thinking about getting a new companion. You could probably help me decide on a breed.”

  “Is that an invitation?”

  “No, that’s not an invitation. But you do have a calendar in front of you, and all of your days appear to be wide open. So when would you like to come?”

  “How about Wednesday?”

  “Fine.”

  “It looks like I have an opening at noon,” I said.

  “That’s lunchtime,” she said. “You expect me to feed you?”

  “No, I’ll bring coffee.”

  “I have perfectly good coffee at my place.”

  “Then I’ll bring milk. Can I write it down? Our date, so I won’t forget?”

  She handed me a pen.

  “Now.” She took out a tiny leather address book embossed with silver. “I need your information.”

  I looked at her.

  “Don’t get sentimental,” she said. “I need to know how to get a hold of you in case you stand me up.”

  On our way out, we stopped by to see Gus. I could never go to the zoo without at least trying to see him.

  We waited for a few minutes, but as soon as we made it to the window I knew he wasn’t going to come out that day. Somewhere in my bones, I could feel him retreating.

  “Oh well,” Enid said. “I guess he can’t bear to see us.”

  I looked at her. “I’ve never heard you pun before.”

  “Must be something about this place,” she said.

  I HAD LEFT THE PARK that day feeling pretty good, but after I got home, that night, I felt sick. It wasn’t the regular kind of nausea from too much coffee or chocolate or time on the subway or in the sun. It was something else, like something was wrong. I feared for Nate, convinced it was him calling out to me.

  Slowly, cautiously, I turned on the news.

  There was Gus, a vintage video of him doing his laps, the mass of white fur pushing against the wall, giant paw pads skimming the surface.

  A beloved icon of Central Park was lost today.

  No.

  Inoperable tum
or . . .

  I was listening, but not really. I couldn’t hear what the anchor was saying. I couldn’t let myself.

  Twenty-seven years old . . .

  Lightheaded.

  Euthanized.

  I had to lie down.

  There was just one bear left now, in the Bronx Zoo, but Gus, my Gus, was gone.

  No.

  The TV offered some comfort. I didn’t dare turn it off. I watched without watching, trying to clear my mind of any thoughts.

  Hours later, Enid called.

  “I heard about the bear,” she said.

  I didn’t feel like talking about it.

  “You have to go back there,” she said.

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “You have to,” she said. “If you don’t go now—”

  “Maybe later” was all I could promise.

  “You’ll go tomorrow,” she said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You can’t give yourself a choice here,” Enid said. “There is no choice.”

  “Tomorrow,” I said eventually, because I knew she was right.

  That night, I dreamt of Gus. He had battled through anxiety in the pool, had struggled through depression after the death of his companion, Ida, had beat the typical life expectancy of twenty years in captivity.

  He had never given up.

  THERE WAS NO NEED to go anywhere else the next day besides the Polar Circle. I wasn’t sure what I was expecting to find, but it was like I was being summoned, a gravitational pull to a sacred citadel.

  As soon as I reached my favorite bench, I noticed a portrait of Gus. I stared at it for a long time, the way it perfectly captured his eyes, his smile, his depth.

  I took out my book, hoping to try to reproduce the magic of the image, but before I knew it, Gus was pouring onto my page. His face, his paws, his fur.

  Gus was an angel at peace; he was a young cub playing in his pool; he was a shadow cast over the zoo.

  He was a friend and companion.

  He was in the trees, and the sky, in the clouds, in the sun, in the earth.

  He was in the water, in the empty tank, in the ice.

  He was in the sea lions, the red panda, the snow monkey, and the snow leopard.

  He was in the birds and the bats, the penguins, and the snakes.

  He was with the zookeepers and the visitors, inside their baseball caps and baby strollers.

  He was everywhere.

  I rolled up my sleeves and went at it. I must have done about fifteen sketches of him without ever leaving my spot. Page after page, I drew.

  Maybe he was with Mom now, or Dad, or both.

  Maybe he was Dad, or Nate, or me.

  Maybe I was officially losing my mind, but all of it was good for the art.

  I would finish a sketch, tear it out, and put it beside me. Then I’d go again.

  It was like a cleansing, a purging of all the images I needed to empty from my brain.

  When I was done, I left a few sketches on the bench, a tribute to all Gus had inspired, and said goodbye.

  THAT NIGHT, I pulled up the volunteer application, and I stared at it for hours.

  Why did I want to do this? The whole thing seemed futile. I had nothing to write.

  But then I reviewed all of the sketches I had done, and all at once I could feel Gus coursing through me. I was destined for this position since that first day I met him. The zoo held magic and power. It was a sanctuary and a haven, not just for animals but also for people who needed animals. I needed this job. There were no other options.

  I could envision myself in one of those shirts, interacting with kids one-on-one, educating the masses with obscure facts. And I could see myself sketching on my favorite bench in all of my free time, channeling the wishes and dreams of the animals.

  I was finally ready to work.

  32

  IT WAS THREE DAYS LATER THAT I HEARD THE DOOR.

  I wasn’t sure what time it was. I had passed out early the night before, so I figured it might still be nighttime when the lock rattled.

  I braced myself for a burglar, and for a fleeting second, I wondered if I had given Frank a key, or Enid, and then—if Mom had learned to move objects. I had almost forgotten it could be anyone else.

  But then he emerged, a shadowy figure standing in the doorway.

  For a split second, I didn’t recognize him.

  “Byron?”

  It was Nate.

  Harry sprung to the door as I scrambled to find pants.

  “Did I wake you?” he said.

  “No, I was just—resting,” I called as I stumbled toward the bathroom, where I splashed water on my face to force consciousness.

  When I was standing before him, he went in for a hug. We hadn’t seen each other in about three weeks, so this was an understood expectation, what should have been a natural impulse.

  Except we still weren’t huggers, and it still didn’t seem right. He didn’t look sick anymore, but he was thin, rubbery almost, as though he could fit between the cracks in the floorboard if I compressed him hard enough. I didn’t feel like hugging him.

  “I can’t believe it’s you,” I said. “It is you, right? You’re here?”

  Part of me was afraid to touch him again, concerned that if I did, my hand would move through him.

  “Not just a pod, or a vision, or a spirit of you. This is you, you?”

  Another part of me wanted to push him—hard. I stood beside him and poked him a little.

  “Luce,” he said. “It’s me. I promise. How are you?”

  “I’m not sure.”

  “It looks like you’ve been busy,” he said.

  He nodded at the coffee table. My sketchpad was out, stray fringes of paper creased over the edges.

  My face warmed. I didn’t have time to organize my things. He didn’t have the context to appreciate what I had been doing.

  “The place looks clean,” he said. “Did you do this?”

  “Byron got someone to do it, but I’ve tried to keep it neat the past few days. It’s not bad, right?”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  “Where were you? Or, wait. Are you not supposed to tell me anything? If I ask you things, will you run away again?”

  “I never ran away,” he said.

  He walked over to the window and stayed there for a while, taking in the outside. Did it smother him to see these things again—the same construction, storefronts, street vendors, scuff in the bottom-left pane? Grimy with residue and weather changes, bird droppings that had appeared and gone and reappeared in his absence. Or was he relieved by the familiarity?

  Home. Sort of.

  “So that’s it?” I said. “That’s all you’re going to say?”

  “No, that’s not it. But I can’t say it all at once, so can we sit down first? Have some tea and hang out a little?”

  His lips were chapped, the corners of his mouth white, an old man’s mouth.

  “I have water,” I said.

  I went to the kitchen and filled a mug from the sink.

  “I know you like tea,” I said. “If I had known you were coming, I could have saved you some. But of course you didn’t tell me you were coming. Unless I missed a message, or my phone broke, but you don’t leave messages. We used to have tea. Well, you did. I drank it all. Or Frank did.”

  I handed him the cleanest cup I could find. “It’s chipped, but it shouldn’t be toxic. It doesn’t have that warning.”

  “Thanks,” he said.

  He shot a quick look at the alcove. He might have seen some of my stuff beyond the wall.

  “You can have it back,” I said.

  “No,” he said. “It’s yours now.”

  He pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and took back his spot by the window.

  “You smoke?” I said.

  “Just for today.”

  “That many in a day?”

  “I’m quitting,” he said. “After today.”

&
nbsp; “Good. They’re disgusting.”

  “They are,” he said, lighting up like he had been doing it his whole life.

  Then he looked at me, closely, as though he were seeing me for the first time.

  “You look good,” he said. “Did you get a haircut?”

  Enid had insisted I wash it each time I left the house. She said a hat was not the same as an excuse.

  “I guess I’ve been wearing it a little differently lately. Enid said—”

  “Who’s Enid?”

  He didn’t even know who Enid was.

  As I tucked the front strand behind my ear, he inspected my hand.

  “No ring?”

  “I didn’t lose it,” I said, flexing my fingers to find the right one. I could hardly remember what it felt like.

  “So you said no.”

  “No, I said yes.”

  “Well, I didn’t miss the wedding, did I? Or the divorce?”

  “No.”

  “Then when is it?”

  “There is no wedding.” It was louder than I expected. “I have to make coffee now. My head hurts. It’s weird that you’re here and you don’t know so much. I’m tired.”

  “Need a hand?” he said.

  “No, I can do it. You want some?”

  “No thanks,” he said. “I’m off of it.”

  “That’s depressing,” I said. “That’s the last thing I’d give up.”

  “So what happened with Frank?” he said, following me into the kitchen.

  “Nothing really. I mean he’s fine. Not like he died or something. He’s just out—of my life. We’re not together. I gave the ring back.”

  “Are you okay?” he said. “He didn’t hurt you, did he?”

  “No, nothing like that. Not intentionally anyway. He wouldn’t know how to do that. I mean he’s a great guy, but—

  I didn’t want to marry him. That’s all. He wasn’t the right ­person—for me. For someone else, he’d be great. I’m fine now.”

  My stomach was tight even then as I listened for the crackle of the machine and waited for the warm notes of roasted nuts and cocoa. I wanted to dive inside the pot.

  “You want to talk about it?” he said.

  “Coffee?”

  “Frank.”

  “Frank?” I said. “I’m over Frank.”

  I was tired of thinking about it, and I didn’t appreciate all the questions all of a sudden, like I was the one who had things to explain.