“Touché,” he said, and pretended to call to the waiter. “No more coffee for the young whippersnapper over here. She’s very irritable and any more caffeine would set her over the edge.”
“Har-har.”
“I decided a long time ago that life goes by fast, and it’s in my best interest to enjoy it as it comes rather than worrying about how old I am,” he said matter-of-factly, only making me feel more irritated, despite the fact that I knew he was right.
But after my trip to the salon, my grumpy fog has lifted. In fact, I’m feeling downright cheerful as I get ready to go out. I’m meeting Sophie and Nina for a celebratory pre-birthday dinner at the Half King, a publishing hotspot where Nina likes to network and where I like the fish and chips.
“New year, new you!” crows Sophie from the booth where she and Nina are waiting for me.
“Seriously, you look hot,” says Nina, whistling her approval.
“All right, ladies, no need to flatter me just because you didn’t get me a gift,” I tell them. We all laugh, then catch up on what’s been going on over the past few months. Sophie tells us how her boss, who oversaw her sexual harassment case, has been making near-harassment-level advances at her. Nina pulls out pictures of her new dog, Max, a French bulldog with a flatulence problem that seems to be exacerbated by his penchant for houseplants. In turn, I catch them up on my adventures with Ashley and tell them about Dave’s new apartment, which makes them swoon. “You’d be a fool not to take him up on it,” Nina practically screeches. “I mean, I think you just won the housing and husband lotteries!”
“He’s not even close to being my husband,” I correct her.
“Ha! We’ll see how long that lasts,” she says knowingly. “Pete only waited four months to pop the question after we got our place together.” Although Nina is an avowed career girl—she’s the head of publicity at a major publishing house—she’s also the homebody of our group, and is planning on having a baby “any second now,” as she puts it.
Sophie and Nina are both eager for updates on Julia, but I have barely spoken with her since I got back from Michigan. I’ve repeatedly tried to get in touch with her, but she hasn’t returned any of my dozen phone calls or e-mails, no doubt aware that I’m determined to get some answers about what’s going on between her and Nathan.
“Well, I’m sure her not calling doesn’t mean anything,” Sophie tells me, unaware of what transpired during my week in Ann Arbor. I haven’t told her and Nina because it doesn’t seem right for my anger to influence their friendships with Julia, too.
“Besides, even if it does, she’s not herself these days,” she adds. She recounts how Julia recently called her at work and ended up babbling about her period to Sophie’s legal secretary. “Nancy’s hard to fluster, but I think fifteen minutes of tampon talk almost put her over the edge,” Sophie says. “Julia’s always been chatty, but she was never the type to be that personal, especially with strangers. You have to admit that she’s a bit of a wild card these days.”
“I miss Julia,” says Nina sadly. “I wish things were how they used to be.” We all nod glumly and Sophie waves our waiter down to order another round.
The conversation eventually turns to other subjects, and we spend the next several hours talking over drinks and far too many French fries. Although it’s frigid when we say good night in front of the pub, I feel warm and tingly inside. Maybe the studies are right and friendship really is healthy, I think. I resolve to see more of the two of them instead of trying to play catch-up every month or two.
Still, as I wave good-bye, I can’t help but feel the tiniest bit lonely. Sophie and Nina may be great, but they’re not Julia.
Fifteen
Julia never called to wish me a happy birthday. In fact, despite my repeated attempts to get ahold of her, I don’t hear from her until a few days before Christmas.
“Are you there?” she says on the other line. Her voice sounds strained.
“Jules? I’m here. What’s up?” I ask, cradling the phone between my head and shoulder as I secure a wrapping paper corner with a piece of tape.
“Oh, nothing. You know. A little of this, a little of that . . .”
“Well, I’m happy to hear from you,” I tell her. “I was a little concerned when you didn’t return any of my calls.”
“I was embarrassed,” she says in a quiet voice.
“Huh? Why?”
“I got arrested,” she practically whispers.
“You got what?” I sit up straight, not sure I’ve just heard her correctly.
“I was caught shoplifting. I wasn’t going to tell you, but Dr. Gopal said I shouldn’t be ashamed about this. That I should be honest about it.”
I toss the gift I’ve just finished wrapping on the coffee table and head to the kitchen, because clearly this conversation is going to require chocolate.
“What happened?” I ask gently, determined not to sound judgmental.
“Well, I was at T.J. Maxx . . .”
“Really?” Despite her recent fashion 180, I still have a hard time picturing my luxury department store–frequenting friend in the discount megachain.
“Yeah. I like it there. One-stop shopping,” she says. More like five-finger shopping, I am tempted to say, but recognize that now is not the time for snark. “Anyway, it was just a pair of sunglasses,” she tells me defensively. “I mean, I tried them on and then left them on the top of my head, and apparently I walked out of the store that way without realizing it.”
“So it was a mix-up?” I prod, and swallow the piece of bittersweet chocolate I’ve been savoring.
“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m pretty sure it was. The whole thing was so horrible that I’ve tried to block it out of my mind.”
“Yikes. I’m sorry, Jules. That sounds terrible,” I tell her.
“It was!” She sniffs. “They searched me to see if I stole anything else. It was humiliating. They let me off the hook in the end, because Mom explained about my accident and they felt bad for me or something.”
“Thank God. What did your neurologist say about the memory issue? That doesn’t sound great.”
“He says I should explore it with my shrink.” Then she says sadly, “Marissa, I wish you were here. I’m so lonely. And I feel so confused and hazy half the time.”
I don’t point out that this is a direct contradiction to what she told me when I saw her in Michigan last month. Instead, I say, “Hon, I wish I was there, too. I really want to come home for Christmas, but I promised Dave I would spend the holidays with his parents.”
“But Dave’s Jewish. He won’t care if you’re not there for Christmas.” She doesn’t say it unkindly, and yet the comment stings.
“We’ll be celebrating Hanukkah with his parents, and Christmas at his new apartment,” I tell her, then quickly correct myself. “Our new apartment.” Despite my reservations, I accepted Dave’s offer earlier this week, and have slowly started the process of moving my things there.
“What do you mean, our apartment? You’re not moving in together, are you?”
“We are.” I smile, thinking of how Dave practically jumped up and down when I told him yes. “I’ve been trying to tell you for weeks now. It’s a big step, but we’re both really excited.”
“Do you honestly think that’s a good idea?” she asks. “Because I don’t. I just don’t think Dave is going to be all that great to live with. You might as well be on your own. You know he’ll never be home.”
“What?” I ask, surprised; before her accident, she was constantly encouraging me to “take the plunge” and move in with Dave, and I’d expected her to show at least a little enthusiasm. In fact, I was kind of counting on her to help me get past the lingering doubt I’ve been feeling. “I don’t get it, Jules. I mean, you’re entitled to your opinion—but this is such a terrific step for us, and Dave’s trying to cut back on how much he works. Plus, I know you know he treats me well,” I tell her. Then, before I can stop myself, �
�Unless you don’t remember?”
“Well, that was rude,” she says. “Maybe I should go.”
“Don’t go. I didn’t mean it.” What’s wrong with me? I think. Julia may not be filtering things, but suddenly neither am I. It’s not how I want things to be between us, but I don’t know how to respond to this new oversharing version of my friend. “I just wish you wouldn’t disparage my decision. What am I supposed to do, suddenly inform Dave that I’ve changed my mind?”
“I guess not,” she concedes. “Sorry.”
“Me, too,” I say, although what I really want to tell her is to put the cap back on her honesty valve. She’d always been gracious about my relationship with him, and I hate the thought that she may have been faking it all these years.
“I think I’m in love,” I remember confessing to her one night over Chinese takeout at her apartment. Dave and I had been dating for four months at that point, and he’d already used the L word several times. I hadn’t yet, but I had fallen for him, and hard; it was only a matter of time before I’d say it back.
“Oh my God, M,” Julia squealed. “I’m sooo happy for you! You guys are going to have some ridiculously beautiful babies.”
“Really?” I asked her, surprised by her gushing. Usually Julia was the first one to tell me to be careful, that New York men were too quick to trade up the minute they found someone better. And when she, Dave, and I were out together, I could tell that the two of them struggled to come up with things to talk about.
“Of course,” she said, stabbing the air with her chopsticks for emphasis. “I can tell that he really loves you. Just watch: beautiful babies, I tell you. Beautiful babies who are going to adore their godmother. Hint, hint.”
But today, all traces of Julia’s graciousness have evaporated like so much of her memory.
“I’m just thinking about what’s good for you,” she says, indicating that we’re not done with this subject after all. “Once you move in with someone, that’s it. You end up married by default.”
“Jules, that doesn’t sound like a negative consequence to living together.”
“Are you sure?” she squeaks. “Like really really sure? Because I just have a hunch that it’s not going to work out.”
I take a deep breath. It’s clear that for whatever reason, she’s no longer on Team Dave, and she’s going to harp on about it as long as I let her. “Okay, can we change the topic?” I’m still anxious to bring up the things that were left unsaid last month. “Because there’s something I want to—”
“Actually, I’ve got to go. I have another doctor’s appointment in a few. Let’s talk soon, okay? Love you!” she says. Before I can respond, I hear a click, and then the dial tone.
Congratulations, Jules—mission accomplished, I think. You managed to avoid discussing Nathan with me yet again.
Sixteen
The holidays go off without a hitch. Dave and I take the train to his parents’ house in Chappaqua and have a wonderful Hanukkah celebration with his family. We spend Christmas Day alone, exchanging gifts and preparing a delicious three-course dinner that takes longer than we anticipate because we stop cooking to christen the kitchen floor of the new apartment. That night, I do a hilarious-if-patchy video chat with Sarah, Ella, Marcus, my mom, and Phil, and even have a pleasant phone conversation with Julia, Grace, and Jim. When December 26th rolls around, I am surprised to find that the post-Christmas blues I usually get are missing. This year, all I feel is relief.
For reasons I’ll never understand, much of the publishing world insists on keeping their offices open between Christmas and New Year’s, even though there is little to no work that can or should get done then. Never one to buck the trend, Svelte pretends to be in full swing for that entire week, and those of us who have decided not to take vacation time duck into the office with our heads down just before lunch and sneak out a few hours later.
I, however, have decided to make the most of the six hours I’m chained to my desk. After poring through every book, online resource, and research journal I can find on young women and traumatic brain injury, I have decided that the next logical step is to write a story about the subject.
Truth be told, I’m beyond bored with weight loss. Each new story on fat-sapping superfoods or butt-blasting workouts or carbohydratecounteracting supplements feels like a screw being slowly drilled into my skull. Even the straightforward food pieces, which I usually enjoy, are beginning to seem like the most mindless drudgery. If I don’t tackle something vaguely stimulating soon I may have to do one Richard Simmons jazzercise video after another until my heart stops.
“Naomi, I want to write a story,” I announce, sitting in the canvas director’s chair across from her desk.
“Um, okay,” she says, putting down the document she’s been marking with a green pen. “You know we’re always encouraging you guys to switch things up from time to time. What do you want to write about? Maybe an ‘I tried it’? Or a celeb interview?”
“That’s the thing,” I say, sitting on my hands. I feel oddly nervous. “I don’t want to do anything weight-loss related. I was thinking about doing a health piece.”
“Great,” she tells me. “We need to freshen up that section. You can only write about breast cancer and the swine flu so many times. What are you thinking?”
“I want to do a story about traumatic brain injury.”
Naomi gives me an “I’m humoring you” look.
“Before you say no, it’s actually surprisingly common,” I tell her. “In fact, it’s a leading cause of injury in women under forty and kills more young women than heart disease and most forms of cancer. So it’s actually right on target for our readers.”
“I see that you’ve been doing your research,” Naomi says, and leans back in her chair. “Tell me more.”
I take a deep breath. “Well, what I find really interesting is that a lot of women who experience brain injury aren’t the same after their accident. Their personality changes. It can be devastating to them and their families.”
“Like with Julia?” Naomi asks.
I nod. “She’s doing well, though, so I’m hoping she’ll be one of the people who recovers.” I wish I felt as confident as I sound. Some of the research on personality change was so hard to read that I actually had to put it down and come back to it later; I may have been searching for answers, but I wasn’t necessarily prepared for what I would find. Still, I am convinced that this would make a great article, and it could definitely be the challenge I need to light a fire under my well-padded butt. And I need—I crave—a project that will consume me. Because maybe that will help me forget how lonely I am. Maybe that will silence the broken record in my mind that’s stuck on the ballad of Julia, Nathan, and me.
“Well, you’re right that it’s interesting,” Naomi tells me. “We don’t want to make this about Julia, but if you could find other brain injury survivors to interview, I think that could make the story really strong. All backed by lots of statistics and studies, of course,” she adds.
“Does that mean it’s a go?” I ask excitedly.
“I think so.” Naomi turns to her computer and pulls up the editorial calendar on her screen. “Yep. We have room for it in the June issue. So that gives you”—she pauses and clicks on the calendar again—“until the middle of March to get the first draft in. Is that enough time?”
“Plenty,” I assure her. “Thank you. I just really wanted to work on something different.”
“No need to explain that to me.” Naomi laughs, and puts her feet, clad in bright green Crocs, on her desk. “I almost applied for a job at Boating Today last month.”
“You did not.”
“No, I didn’t,” she admits. “But I thought about it. Trust me, I know how hard it can be constantly doing the same stories over and over.” She points her pen at me. “When it gets to be too much, you let me know what I can do. We want to keep you happy.”
“I finally have a real project for you to work
on,” I say over the wall of Ashley’s cubicle later that afternoon.
Ashley looks up from her computer, making no effort to conceal that she’s on Facebook. In the spirit of the season, I ignore my inner Scrooge and let it slide. After all, she was remarkably competent at completing the paperwork I gave her last week.
“Really?” Her eyes sparkle with interest.
“Really. What do you know about brain health?”
“Well, I took several psychology classes when I was at university in New Haven,” she says, using thinly veiled code for “I went to Yale.” She adds, “Although I majored in classical literature, so I’m not sure how helpful I’ll be on that front. But if you need an editor, I’m sure I could help you polish your article.”
I stifle a snort. “I don’t think we’re going to start you on editing just yet. I need research help—someone to line up experts, sort through studies, really get their hands dirty.” An extremely satisfying image of Ashley’s pearly pink nails coated with grime flashes through my mind. “Are you game?”
“Of course,” she responds, her baby blues suddenly flat and bored. For a second I wonder if I’m making a mistake, but I remind myself that with nearly a dozen different projects coming up over the next several weeks, it’s in everyone’s best interest for me to be a team player, even if my impulse is to go it alone.
“I’m glad. I think this will be really rewarding for you, and if you do a good job, I’ll even talk to Naomi about letting you write a sidebar,” I tell her. “That’s actually how I got my first clip.”
“Oh, I have dozens of clips from my column at the Yale Daily News,” she informs me proudly. So much for Ivy League innuendo.
“But a clip from a national magazine couldn’t hurt your portfolio, could it?” I ask, not sounding nearly as caustic as I’m feeling.
“No,” she concedes, flipping her blond hair over her shoulder.
“Great,” I tell her. “Let’s see how things go after you tackle the research portion of the story.”
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