by Sarah Jio
Colette tucks a strand of her gray hair behind her ear and walks to the door. Once it’s closed, she indicates a chair beside her desk, brightened with a potted gloxinia in bloom. “Sit for a moment, won’t you?”
I collapse into the chair, and my eyes well up with tears. “They want me to have brain surgery.”
She nods and takes a step toward me.
“Is it true what my doctor said?” I ask. “That these episodes, this temporary vision loss, are wrecking my brain?”
“The truth is hard to come by,” she says. “No one will understand our gift the way we do.” Her eyes narrow. “But let me ask you this: Do you feel that your brain is being . . . what did you say, wrecked?”
I shake my head. “No, I wouldn’t say that. At least I don’t think so. But Dr. Heller has so much urgency about the idea of surgery. And I’ve trusted her my whole life.”
Colette clasps her hands together. “As much as people may try to draw conclusions, there is no scientific explanation for what we experience. There was a woman in the late nineteen fifties who faced a similar medical dilemma. Her name was Felicia Harcourt. It’s not clear whether she possessed insufficient strength to handle her gift, or if there was some other factor at play. But she ultimately consented to a lobotomy. She spent the rest of her life in an institution. Look in the book. Her pages are blank. She didn’t complete her journey.”
“What should I do?” I ask in a trembling voice.
“There is only one thing you must do: Identify the six types of love,” Colette says. “And, Jane, you must succeed. You must. Promise me you will.”
I wipe away a tear. “I’ll try.”
“Good,” she says.
I reach out and touch one of the gloxinia’s purple rosettes. “Why do you devote your life to flowers?”
She’s quiet for a long moment, then takes a deep breath. “Because it’s my way to experience love.”
I think about her words as I walk out of the hospital and drive back to the parking garage at Pike Place, as I take Sam on a walk, and as the March sunshine warms my face.
“You look hot,” Lo says to me later. It’s a little after five, and at five thirty I’m supposed to meet Cam for drinks at Lowell’s.
I tug at my skirt. “Do you think I overdid it a bit? I’m thinking about going home and changing into jeans.”
“No way,” she says. “You look great. And I know you’re not really accustomed to dating, but this, my friend, is what people wear on dates. They step it up a notch, and you have done that beautifully.”
I sigh. “I don’t know. I don’t even know if I really even like this guy. He’s kind of . . .”
“Kind of what?”
“Outspoken, for one. Overconfident. Cocky.”
“Cocky is a good trait in a man,” Lo says with a laugh. “Well, confidence. It’s a turn-on. You’ll see.”
“I’m not so sure,” I say. “And also I’m a little worried, because I told him about my . . . thing.”
“The love thing, yes,” she replies, pulling the cash out of the till.
“I wish I hadn’t told him.”
“Well, you did,” she says matter-of-factly. “And you probably did because you felt, at a gut level, that you could trust him.”
“Well, I’m still nervous.”
“Dating is brutal,” Lo says as she bundles the cash and checks into a stack and tucks them into an envelope that she’ll deposit at the bank later. “You know what I’ve been thinking about a lot lately?”
“What?”
“Something my mom used to say,” she continues. “She said twenty-nine is the most dangerous year of a woman’s life.”
I crack a smile. “We’re both twenty-nine. What do you think she meant by that?”
Lo looks thoughtful for a moment, then nods. “She said that at this age, we’re on the verge of our futures in a way we never have been and never will be again.” She pauses for a moment as if trying to extract the memory of her mother’s voice from the depths of her mind. Like me, Lo lost her mother as a teenager. It’s one of the many reasons we bonded in college. “It’s a pivotal time. And she warned me that some women get lost in it, this big year. They get lost in the fog or end up in a place they didn’t ever want to be. Others make poor choices, terrible ones. And then there are those who live boldly and loudly and take life on. I think my mom said, ‘Take life by the balls.’ I like that.” She sighs. “Anyway, it’s a dangerous year. So we have to be wise.”
I think about Lo’s words as I walk to the market. Lowell’s is just a few steps ahead, and somewhere inside, Cam will be waiting at a table. I think about Colette, too, and how she insisted that I complete my journey before my thirtieth birthday—well, before sunset on my thirtieth birthday. Twenty-nine. I wonder if she also believes it’s a dangerous year.
My phone rings a block away from the restaurant. I see Flynn’s name on the screen and answer.
“Hey,” I say.
“Hey yourself,” he replies. “Doing anything for dinner?”
“Yeah, I’m meeting that writer, Cam.”
“A date!”
“Yes,” I say. “I guess you could call it that.”
“So you like him, I take it?”
“I think so.”
“Well, he’s a good guy, Jane,” Flynn continues. “A really good guy. Did he tell you about Joanna?”
“Who?”
“His girlfriend who died.”
“Died?”
“Yeah, it was horrible, and I don’t know the whole story, just bits and pieces from his friend Adam who lived with him after all of that in New York, but anyway, it was awful. They were engaged, I think, at the time. He was driving the car, up to someone’s weekend house upstate, and I’m not really sure what happened, but there was an accident, a bad one. Cam came out unscathed, but Joanna wasn’t so lucky. She was in a coma for a long time, and never recovered. Amnesia, a traumatic brain injury, stuff like that. Cam actually took a leave of absence from his job for a year and cared for her. Adam went to visit him in the thick of it, and he said it was the most amazing thing he’s ever seen a man do for a woman. He bathed her, he spoon-fed her. He taught her to walk again. Talk about love.”
“That’s so sad, and inspiring,” I say. “What ended up happening?
“She ended up having a stroke,” Flynn says. “It was a complication from her brain injuries.”
“How . . . tragic,” I say. “I’m shocked.”
“Yeah,” he says. “It changed him, I think, as any hardship changes a person. Man, can you even imagine loving someone and then having all of that taken away from you in the blink of an eye?”
“It makes sense now,” I say. “That’s why he’s so jaded about love. He had it, then lost it.”
“Yeah,” he says again. “But I don’t know if I’d call him jaded, Jane. He’s just more serious now, I guess. He knows nothing in life is certain.”
I think about Flynn’s words as I walk inside the restaurant and see Cam already seated at a table. He sees me immediately and waves.
I bypass the hostess and walk to his table. “Hi,” I say, feeling a flutter in my stomach as I sit down.
“You look great,” he says.
I take off my coat and drape it across my chair. “Thanks.” I feel his eyes on me, but instead of returning his gaze, I glance around the room. “Ever been here before?” I ask, willing my eyes back to his, which are still fixed on me.
“No,” he says. “It wasn’t a place Flynn and I would have frequented our first year at school, and I haven’t been back in Seattle for long.” He pauses for a moment. “Wait, wasn’t a scene in Sleepless in Seattle filmed here?”
“Yeah,” I reply, “that scene with Tom Hanks and his friend when they talk about—”
“Tiramisu,” we both say at the same
time.
I smile and look away.
“I can’t believe we haven’t seen each other since New Year’s,” he says.
“Yeah,” I say. “It’s funny how life just speeds along.” I bite my lip and scold myself for making such a sterile, benign comment.
“Well,” Cam adds, “I’m glad we finally reunited. I’ve been thinking about you.”
My eyes meet his. “You have?”
“I have.”
He’s confident—bold, even. Lo would approve. But I still don’t know how I feel about his bravado.
“Have you thought about me?” he continues.
“Well, I guess,” I say, feeling the color grow in my cheeks.
“You know what I can’t get out of my mind?”
I shake my head. “What?”
“What you told me about yourself that night,” he replies. “About your gift. Your ability to”—he pauses to hush his voice—“to see love.”
“Oh,” I say. “I had hoped we wouldn’t go there.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s . . . complicated.”
“Do you trust me?”
“Trust you?” I say with a grin. “I hardly know you.”
“But you trusted me the night we met,” he counters. “Why not continue to trust me?”
I nod. “You have a point.”
The waiter delivers two martinis that Cam ordered before I sat down, and we clink glasses before each taking a sip.
“Here’s what I’d like to know,” Cam says. “When you’re out places where couples gather, what’s it like for you?”
“Well,” I say a little cautiously, “it can be interesting.”
“How so?”
I tell him about a typical episode, and he shakes his head in amazement or disbelief, or both. “I’m fascinated. So you’re saying that if you look around the room, you’ll probably see something that will trip off your . . . gift?”
I nod. “Love is all around, in many forms. And if it’s real love, I’ll see it.”
“Does it hurt?” Cam asks, sinking his chin into the palm of his hand.
I shake my head. “No, not really. It mostly feels like pressure in my head. And then my eyes feel like they’re clouded over. I’ve lost my vision entirely at times. It’s disorienting, a little unpleasant, but not painful, per se.”
He looks thoughtful, then nods. “There must be a scientific explanation for this. There has to be.”
“You sound like my neurologist, Dr. Heller,” I say with a grin.
He nods. “I mean, no offense, but I just don’t think I can buy into all the voodoo.”
“Who said anything about voodoo?” I spar back.
“I’m sorry,” Cam says. “I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just trying to wrap my head around all of it.”
“My head might not belong to me much longer,” I continue. “My doctor wants me to have surgery.”
“Surgery?”
I recount the dismal prognosis I was given today.
“What are you going to do?”
I shrug. “I don’t know. Honestly, sometimes I think I’d be better off with a lobotomy.”
He grins. “Well, I know a fair amount about those.”
“And how is that?”
“Oh,” he says, “nothing that interesting. I’ve poked around on the subject for articles in the past.” He pops an olive into his mouth from his martini glass. “Anyway, it was years ago, and nothing I want to bore you with.”
I think about my conversation with Flynn about Cam’s late girlfriend. Is he drawn to topics of the brain because of Joanna’s injuries?
“How did you come to be a medical writer?” I ask.
He looks momentarily thoughtful, as if considering whether to peel back a layer and reveal a truth about himself, but the look in his eyes quickly changes. “It pays a hell of a lot more than writing about sports,” he jokes.
I smile, and when the waiter asks if I’d like another martini, I say yes.
“See those two over there?” Cam says, changing the subject. He indicates a young couple engrossed in conversation, with an open bottle of red wine on the table in front of them. I look away from them quickly.
“They’re young,” he continues. “They’re good-looking. They’re obviously into each other. Do you think they’re in love?”
I roll my eyes. “Do we have to do this?”
“Yes,” he says with a devilish smile.
I sigh and look back across the room. I let my eyes search the couple in question. I watch them sip their wine and exchange witty banter. The woman, dressed in a low-cut blue tank top, reaches across the table and places her hand on the man’s wrist, just briefly, and he smiles. I squint, then brace myself for what I expect to come, the fog bank that will inevitably roll in.
I wait, but nothing happens.
“What is it?” Cam asks. “What do you see?”
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?”
“Nada.”
He shakes his head. “You mean, they’re not in love?”
“Not that I can see.”
He takes a sip of his martini. “But they look so . . . happy.”
“Happy doesn’t always mean love,” I say. “You’d be surprised how many people you think are in love are really not.”
“So they’re faking it?”
I shrug. “Pretending is the word I like to use. I think people want to be in love. They want to have perfect lives and project that to the people around them.”
“But you can see through all that,” Cam says.
“Yeah, I guess,” I say.
“But mostly you don’t want to see it?”
I sigh. “It feels like I’m interfering.”
“How so?”
“Well, what if you knew that your best friend’s wife didn’t love him? Would you tell him? Or what if your brother was madly in love with a woman who didn’t return his affection? Would you say something?”
Cam nods. “Interesting, yes.” He smiles and takes another sip of his martini.
“You still don’t believe me, do you?”
“It’s not that I don’t believe you,” he says. “It’s just that it still doesn’t add up, logically, for me.”
“Love isn’t logical,” I say.
“And we’re at an impasse again,” he continues. He looks around the restaurant again, then indicates a couple by the front window. “How about those two? What do you see?”
I sigh again. “You really want to know?”
He nods. “But let me guess,” he says. “No love connection between them. I don’t mean to come off as rude, but they’re completely mismatched. She’s way too beautiful for him. Look at the guy. He’s bald and, what, five foot seven on a good day?” He shakes his head. “I vote no.”
I turn to see the couple Cam is so interested in, and I can immediately see why he’s made such a stark analysis. The woman is beautiful. Model beautiful. And the man, yes, he is not handsome. Not in the slightest. I nod at Cam, just as my vision begins, unexpectedly, to cloud. I rub my eyes.
“What is it?” he asks, leaning forward.
I nod and close my eyes tightly. “Yep, it’s love. Big love.”
“Big love?”
I nod, eyes still closed. “You should feel the pressure in my head right now.”
“Are you OK?”
I blink hard. “I will be,” I say. “I need to head to the restroom.” I hold on to the edge of the table to steady myself, but I’ve misjudged the strength of my legs, and they buckle underneath me.
When I open my eyes, I feel stunned, and my head hurts. Cam is hovering over me, and so is the man from the window table. He’s dabbing my forehead with a napkin. I see a bloodstain on the edge of it. My bloo
d?
“Jane,” Cam says. His eyes are big and filled with concern. “Jane, can you hear me?”
“Yes,” I mutter. “What happened?”
“You fell and hit your head,” he explains.
“Knocked yourself out cold,” the man with the supermodel girlfriend (wife?) says. “Left you with quite a goose egg and gash on your forehead. But no major damage done. I see no signs of a concussion.”
Cam looks at the man, then back at me. “Still, if you feel nauseated later, or suddenly sleepy, it wouldn’t be a bad idea to head to urgent care. Concussions can be sneaky. I know from my research.”
The man nods. “Yes, if there’s nausea, make sure she’s seen right away.”
Cam grins. “Pretty lucky to fall at a table across from a neurosurgeon.”
“I’m Andy Westfield,” the man says. “I work at Harborview Medical Center. And this is my wife, Anna. It’s our tenth wedding anniversary. We met here twelve years ago.” He exchanges a sweet glance with his wife. “I still don’t know what she sees in me. Well, we’ll let you get back to your dinner. You’re going to be fine.”
I smile. “Happy anniversary. And thank you.”
Cam offers me his hand, and I feel a fluttering in my stomach as I take it and let him help me to my feet.
“I’m so embarrassed,” I say as I take my seat again.
“Don’t be,” Cam says. He carefully considers his next words. “You know, I’m beginning to believe you.”
My eyes meet his then, and in this moment, I feel that he sees me. Not just my exterior, but me. He sees me.
“I’m glad,” I say with a grin. “I’m so glad.”
Chapter 11
1112 Broadway E. #202
Josh takes his fiancée’s hand to help her out of the car. Katie is blindfolded, and has been for the past ten minutes. Josh has a surprise for her. A big one.
“Can I take this thing off now?” she pleads. “I’m dying!”
“Just a moment longer,” he says, closing the car door, then leading her up the walkway to the three-story Capitol Hill brownstone he purchased for the two of them. The Realtor just delivered the key this week, and he stared at the shiny brass for a long time. Katie deserves a mansion, of course, a castle, but he dropped every last penny of his savings into the brick townhouse standing before them now, and it’s pretty spectacular in its own right. Newly renovated, its three floors include a chef-quality kitchen with a six-burner Wolf range, an upper-floor home office, where Katie can work, and a master bathroom with a shower stall built for two. Josh’s heart rate quickens when he thinks of their co-shower this morning.