Dancing on Broken Glass
Page 9
She gave in with a hearty sigh, and an hour later we’d hashed out all the details. I’d slipped into Mom’s bed, and Lily had put her pajamas on and slipped in beside me. Priss was the only one really paying attention to Perry Mason. But we all heard it. Downstairs, the front door had opened and closed, and in a few seconds there were footsteps on the stairs. I reached for Lily’s hand and locked eyes with Priscilla, who had tensely risen to her feet. She inched to the door and peered out, then relaxed. “What the hell are you doing here?”
Ron Bates walked into the bedroom looking ashen. Lily sat up and put her hands to her face. “What are you doing?” she said from behind them.
“Lil . . . can . . . can I talk to you? Alone?”
“No. No! This isn’t happening.”
“Lily, please.”
“I’m not going anywhere with you, Ronald Bates!” she shouted. “You’re going to have to break up with me right here, in front of my sisters.”
Priscilla folded her arms, lifted her chin, and stared at Ron, who looked shell-shocked. “We’re not going anywhere, you little weasel, so break up and leave. We’re trying to watch Perry Mason here.”
Ron opened his mouth in astonishment. “I don’t want to break up with you, you idiot girl! Lily, I want to marry you!”
He might as well have asked me, because my reaction could not have been more bride-to-be-like. I leaped up and started screaming and jumping on Mom’s bed while Ron kissed Lily and Priss turned up the TV.
Ron Bates has loved my sister since they were children, and to be loved that purely had to be the secret dream of every woman I knew. Lily had it, and I wanted it. So as I fell further and further into Mickey, I would call my sister and tell her just about everything. She was dutifully curious and patient with my blow-by-blow descriptions of our dates. Since Mickey and I couldn’t see each other often—I was still in Boston and he was in Connecticut—when we did get together, he always made it special, which made Lily gush. Whether it was spending the day on Bashan Lake, which I called Mickey’s lake because his home was on the shore, or when he surprised me with tickets to the Boston Pops at the Hatch Shell, or the time he told me to meet him at the airport and we flew to New York because he’d scored tickets to Letterman, Mickey gave it his all. Once he rented out an entire theater in Colchester for just the two of us to see As Good as It Gets. When Jack Nicholson’s character was at his most obsessed and Helen Hunt had thrown up her hands, Mickey had leaned over and whispered, “Behold our life.” When they ended up together, I repeated the same thing to him.
Lily called us sickeningly romantic, and I guess we were. I just loved being with him. I loved his big productions as much as I loved his quiet moments. I loved that I could keep up with him—we biked and hiked and fished and bowled—he couldn’t hit a tennis ball and I couldn’t golf, but other than that we were pretty compatible. I loved to look at him looking at me. I loved that he seemed in awe of my feelings for him. I loved the sweet things he did for me. When I couldn’t see him because I was pulling an all-weekender with my study group, he always had food delivered—pizza, pastries, subs, sometimes even flowers. I adored his many facets, which he insisted were part of his disorder. But I didn’t see disorder; I saw a beautiful tapestry unfolding before me.
“Just be careful, Lu,” my sister would say. It was good advice, and she gave it to me every time we talked—nearly every day.
By comparison, I seldom thought to share any of this with Priscilla. Bad as this might sound, it wasn’t really that unusual. Priscilla was a different type of sister altogether. She left Brinley—and Lily and me—when she was seventeen, screaming her good riddance to my weeping mother, with whom she’d been fighting for the last year. I was ten at the time and Lily was nearly fourteen, and we were relieved when Priss left. Even then, the two of us knew that we were never leaving Brinley Township. Priscilla headed full throttle into a corporate, cutthroat, succeed-or-die life, determined to run as fast and as far from Brinley as she could. Lily stayed and married the boy next door, and so as far as Priss was concerned, her life was over. The jury was still out on me, since Priscilla refused to believe I would actually return to Brinley to live in the house we all grew up in and teach at the high school we’d all graduated from. But that was, in fact, exactly the plan. She loved us, but we didn’t make it easy for her. Priscilla opted for sophistication, which Lily and I were rather sadly indifferent to. And with so little in common, it was hard to imagine Priscilla ever taking much interest in my love life. Except that my love life was Mickey Chandler.
I suppose it was because Priss had seen him first that I never got around to telling her about our relationship. Though they never got together, I was pretty sure the idea of him and me would never compute. Still, I imagined that at some point I would take Priss to lunch, spend an hour catching up, then casually mention that I was seeing Mickey. I would get it out there where it belonged, defend it, and offer not much more than that I was falling in love with him.
But I never got around to telling her, and when she found out, it wasn’t pretty.
It happened at a fund-raiser in Cambridge, a black-tie event for the Greater Massachusetts Children’s Aid Society. Mickey was one of the entertainers. We looked fabulous if I do say so myself—Mickey in tails, me in a wine chiffon gown, floor length and strapless, jewels dangling from my ears catching the light. Mickey was onstage talking about an invention he was working on—a wall made of Velcro you could toss kids onto when you needed to get them out of your hair.
I was laughing at him when Priscilla materialized at my table in a gunmetal-gray dress so tight it looked shrink-wrapped to her curves. Her hair was lighter than the last time I’d seen her, her tan darker, and she looked like she belonged on the cover of a magazine. A naughty magazine. Surprised to see me at such an exclusive function, she swooped in to air-kiss my cheek and to ask what I was doing there. But before I could answer, Priss had made herself at home in Mickey’s chair, her attention decidedly on the stage.
“Can you believe this, Lucy? You know who that is, don’t you? Was this meant to be or what? Kenny Boatwright can kiss my fabulous butt. And this time, Lucille”—she met my eyes with a teased warning—“you stay out of my way.”
“Priss, I need to tell you something.”
Mickey had just finished his set to rousing applause and the crowd was on their feet. Priscilla stood up, tugged at the bottom of her dress and tucked herself back into the top of it, then walked away in search of her prey. My boyfriend.
“Priscilla, I really need to tell you—,” I shouted, but she shooed me away with a flick of her wrist. Mickey was on his way back to our table, but an appreciative fan had delayed his progress. I held my breath knowing this was a disaster waiting to happen and I could do nothing about it. Mickey didn’t stop when he saw Priscilla. He just walked on past her to me and planted a quick kiss on my lips. The crowd was still clapping and Mickey waved in gratitude.
Priscilla was embarrassed; I could see it on her face. Her eyes flashed humiliation, hurt, and annoyance, but whether it was from Mickey’s affront or his being with me, I couldn’t tell. I dropped Mickey’s hand and hurried over to her. I know she would have preferred to walk away and forget she’d ever seen us, but I caught her arm before she could do that. “Priscilla . . .”
Mickey was suddenly at my side, confused. “Hey . . .”
“Mickey, you remember my sister,” I said, squeezing his hand like a vise to convey the importance of his answer.
But his blank look delivered the final blow to Priss’s porcelain ego. Priscilla nodded, incensed. “Nice to see you again, Mickey,” she said behind a stiff smile. “We met at Lucy’s birthday party last year.”
If this reminder sparked anything beyond what he’d already displayed, Mickey’s expression didn’t say so, but he covered with “Of course. How are you?”
“I’m fine. And you’re still very funny.” Priscilla then turned and walked away without a word to me.
> “That’s your sister?”
“Yes! Surely you remember Priscilla.”
“Priscilla? Was she always that blond?”
“What?”
“I’m so sorry, Lu. She doesn’t look like the girl from your party. I’m sorry. I’m so stupid. I hurt her feelings, didn’t I? What can I do?”
I looked at Mickey and let go of all my angst when I saw the earnest expression on his face. He was sorry he’d hurt my sister. He didn’t make fun of her, which he could have done in a dozen ways. He didn’t try to defend himself for his unintentional rudeness. He just owned it with an integrity Priscilla would never have displayed if the tables were turned. I smiled up at him. “This is why I like you, you know.” I kissed him and he looked confused. He had no inkling what I was talking about.
The next day, I finally put my lunch plan into play, even though it was way too late for it to turn out the way I’d hoped. I was sitting in Maggiano’s and Priss was forty-five minutes late. I’d eaten the rolls and was working on my third iced tea, but I knew she’d eventually turn up. She’d told me she might be late, which was Priscilla-speak for I’ll be there when I feel like it.
I was halfway through my chicken Caesar when she finally arrived. She eyed my plate as she took off her jacket and smoothed her skirt. “Nice, Lucy.”
I looked at my watch. “Backatcha, Priss.”
She ordered a green salad, dressing on the side, and ice water. When the waiter walked away, she sat back, folded her arms, and hardened her jaw at me.
I sighed. “Would you please just get over yourself?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I’m busy, Lucy. Why did you want to talk to me?”
I pushed my lunch aside and leaned over. “I should have done this before, and I’m sorry, Priss. But, about the other night . . .”
“What about it?”
“Well, I’m with Mickey Chandler. I’ve been seeing him for a few months now. I think I’m in love with him, and if he asked me today, I would probably marry him.” When her expression did not change, I had no choice but to plow on. “I know you scoped him out for yourself . . . and it was kind of awkward last night, and I’m sorry. But . . . anyway, that’s what’s going on, and I have important things to tell you, so again, please, can we get past this?”
Priscilla’s eyes bore into mine. “First of all, Lucille . . . what makes you think I care?”
I leaned back in my seat and sighed.
“Second of all . . . congratulations.”
“Thank you, Priss,” I said with caution.
Her salad arrived, and as she picked up her fork, she continued, “For the record, after I got a good look at him the other night, I found I was not even remotely interested.”
“Well, that’s great. That’ll make things easier, right?”
“I suppose.” She shrugged as she popped a tomato into her mouth. “So what important things do you have to tell me about the two of you?”
This was the part I was dreading, but there was no way around it. I cleared my throat. “Have you ever heard of bipolar disorder?”
“Yes. It’s a mental illness. Why?”
“Well . . . I thought you should know that Mickey’s been diagnosed with it.”
She stopped chewing and put her fork down, but she didn’t say anything for so long that I felt compelled to fill up the silence. I told her about Mickey’s regular therapy and what the medication did for his mood. I told her how productive he was when he was manic. But I didn’t say anything about his depressions or past suicidal thoughts. Priscilla heard me out and did not interrupt, but when I was finished she stared at me for a full minute before responding. I should have known what was coming.
“Are you really that desperate?”
“What?”
“I mean it, Lucy. Are you? That desperate? Because I’m sure, if you tried, you could attract a competent, intact man. Why would you even consider this?”
I glared at her. “Stop it, Priscilla. I mean it. This is my choice and my relationship.”
“Well, honey, you need to find another relationship. You don’t need this one.” Her tone wasn’t particularly unkind but the words stung.
I shook my head.
“Think about what you’re doing, Lucy. And figure out a way to end it. You can do better than this. You’re worth more than this.”
I looked hard at my sister. “I think I’m done here.” I tossed my napkin on the table. “I don’t have to answer to you for what I’m doing, and you’re not allowed to criticize me for it.”
“Excuse me?” my sister said, looking honestly surprised.
“I mean it, Priss. This might be a deal-breaker between us. You have to accept this and be nice or we’re done. You’ve got your career, you’re not around, so it won’t be much of a leap if that’s how you want it. But if you want a relationship with me, you have to accept my life, and that includes Mickey.” I placed a twenty on the table and stood up.
“Where do you think you’re going? We’re not done here.”
“I’ve said everything I came to say. I’m leaving so you can think hard about your next move.” I walked out then, more angry than I wanted to be.
Late that night, Priscilla showed up at my apartment. I’d already gone to bed, and though she had doctored her face, I could tell she was exhausted. She walked in wearing the same suit she’d had on at lunch, still looking fairly crisp except for her blouse, which was untucked.
“Have you been working? It’s two in the morning.”
“Yes, I’ve been working,” she barked. “That’s what I do, remember?”
“Do you want to come in?”
She looked hard at me and her tears betrayed her. “Dammit!” she hissed.
“Do you want to sit down?”
“No, I don’t want to sit down!”
“Priss, why are you here?”
My sister brought a hand to her forehead and sighed. “I’m here because . . . because I want us to be okay.”
“What?”
“You heard me. I want us to be okay, and if I have to be sorry, then I’m sorry, and if I have to be quiet about Mickey, then, well, I’ll do my best.”
“Really?”
“Don’t be so shocked,” she snapped. “I’m not the heartless bitch you think I am.”
I walked over and put my arms around her. “Oh, Priss. Yes, you are. But I love you anyway.”
She laughed a strangled little laugh and then we were both crying.
When we finally pushed away from each other, Priscilla’s face was a disaster. “Do you want a drink? Have you had dinner?”
“I’m fine. I’m going home to shower. I have to be back at five.”
“You’re kidding.”
She shrugged. “Anyway, I just wanted to tell you he seems nice.”
“Who?”
“Your boyfriend. He sent me two dozen roses. Fire and Ice.”
“Mickey. Mickey sent you roses?”
“You really didn’t know? You didn’t put him up to it?”
“No. But I might have if I’d thought of it.”
“Huh. Then I like him better than I thought I would.” Priss held a small card out to me, but pulled it back quickly. “Just for the record, Lucy, I will always be concerned about you being with a crazy person. And I don’t think concern should be a deal-breaker.”
“Don’t start, Priscilla. We just had a moment.”
She handed me the card. “Anyway, it’s hard to believe he’s all that crazy.”
I opened the note and recognized Mickey’s handwriting.
Dear Priscilla,
I’d like to apologize for not recognizing you the other night. I’m very embarrassed. But honestly, the reason I didn’t recognize you is that you are even more beautiful than when we met last year. You looked familiar, but as you walked away, I thought Lucy had introduced me to another sister, not one I had met before.
Again, my sincere apology.
Michael Chandler
Priscilla took the card from me and kissed my cheek. “Please be careful,” she said as she walked out.
eight
JUNE 10, 2011
I said good-bye to the gals at the nurses’ station, and Peony buzzed me out of the security doors. “You be good now, Michael,” she said. I saluted her. I’ve been hospitalized five times during my marriage and four times before that; Peony knows I’ll do my best.
I like to walk home from Edgemont. It’s not far and I like turning my back on the hospital. It’s symbolic. I’ve come here in various stages of mental disruption. I’ve been terrified, and I’ve been too far gone to be terrified. I’ve been so lethargic I couldn’t stand, and I’ve been so wired I couldn’t sit. They always take good care of me, but I’m still a little frightened at the thought of being here.
I remember one time when I was little, my mother had been in the hospital for weeks—it seemed like weeks—and we’d gone with Dad to pick her up. He wouldn’t let us go in, so we waited in the car. David was reading a comic book and I was watching the front entrance for my parents. “You know they fried her brain, don’t ya?” David said to me.
“What does that mean?”
“Electric shock. They sizzled her. She probably won’t remember our names . . . so, you know, don’t expect much.”
David was five years older than me and I believed whatever he told me. But he was wrong that time. Mom was walking a little bit funny, like she was dizzy and Dad was helping her, but when she saw us, she cried. She crawled right in the backseat and hugged us and kissed us and cried her eyes out. She knew our names.