by Annie Ward
A storm passed through what was already anguish. “Of course you would believe him!”
“No, I—”
The next second, a Greek vase was hurling toward me. She lost several of her bracelets along with the throw. The vase broke against the wall behind me. Ian grabbed me and shoved me toward the front door and stood between the two of us.
Joanna was crying for real now. The way she was standing made her look broken. “How could you believe him? You know me!”
“Jo,” I said, trying to get around Ian so I could go to her. He was not having it, and blocked me with his arm.
“Get out of here,” she said, her smudged, shiny eyes turning to the floor. In a trembling voice she went on, “I was getting sick of seeing you sleeping in for days on end while I work my ass off 24/7 anyway.”
“What?” I held my hands out, stunned. “I thought—”
“Get out!” She stabbed at the door with her long, purple fingernail. “Both of you, get the fuck out of my house, right the fuck now.”
“I need my—”
She reached down, picked up my boots and hurled them at me. “Go!”
We went.
MADDIE
2001
Ian and I walked out of Joanna’s house like children who had been punished. Heads down, arms at our sides, staring at the ground. My bottom lip was shaking, but Ian was, I think, just fuming.
Neither one of us actually made the decision to walk to the Irish Pub, we just started out silently in that direction. We passed through the woods and reached the graffiti-splattered footbridge that crossed a branch of the River Vardar. Without a word we followed the sidewalk that led to the center. The downtown was mostly neglected and dirty, but also had the occasional clean, modern block where the shop owners had valiantly managed to keep cheery displays in sparkling windows.
Behind the shopping mall and across the river, in between the mosque and the mountains, I could see the prominent and striking Skopsko Kale, a tenth-century Roman fortress that looked out over the city. Lit by dozens of little lamps dotting the hillside below, the long stone wall meandered across the high ridge, ending in a medieval tower with three black windows that looked like keyholes in the amber stone which shone like gold.
We carried on in silence into the center, him smoking and me looking at the death notices stapled to telephone poles and the cork public-announcement boards. There were dozens. The eyes of the Balkan dead were everywhere. They watched constantly.
The Irish Pub was just like it always was: bright, loud and full of ex-pats. It felt like entering a Christmas party, but there was no special occasion. Ian and I were greeted upon entering with back slaps and hellos.
We ordered drinks and sat down. I fought back tears.
“It’s okay,” he said. He put his hand gently on the back of my head and pulled me toward him until my cheek was on his shoulder. He hugged me and stroked the back of my hair. After a while he sat up and smiled at me with bright eyes. “I’m sorry about what just happened up there. But I’ll admit that I’m thrilled to be alone with you.”
Maybe something good might come out of all this pain between me and Jo. “Me, too,” I said, meaning it.
“I’ve been wanting to ask you something. That quote that you knew, the same one as Helena, about God being dead?”
“It’s Nietzsche,” I answered quietly.
“It seems like such a strange coincidence to me, that two of my favorite people read the same obscure book.”
After a second I said, “Well, Nietzsche’s not that obscure. Not if your dad’s an atheist like mine.”
He looked appropriately shocked. “Really?”
“Yeah. One of his favorite quotes was, ‘A man’s ethical behavior should be based effectually on sympathy, education, and social ties and needs; no religious basis is necessary. Man would indeed be in a poor way if he had to be restrained by fear of punishment and hopes of reward after death.’”
“Your dad’s like you then. Unconventional.”
“But I’m not an atheist,” I said. “I nearly died when I was ten. I felt different afterward. Protected. I felt like I’d been chosen. I always said my prayers to myself under the covers because I didn’t want my dad to know. I was afraid he would think I was just another one of the flock. I suppose I am, really.”
“You could never be just another one of the flock,” Ian said, leaning close to me and looking into my eyes. One of his fingers batted at my hair. “Your wool is far too dark.”
He was finally going to kiss me. He stayed like that, looking in my eyes, as if he was reading something written in tiny letters. After a few seconds he said, “I wonder, are you as authentic as you seem? I’ve never met someone so unafraid to wear their heart on their sleeve.”
“I don’t know how to be any other way.”
“I’m not a trusting person.”
“I can see that. Maybe I can help.”
He shook his head.
I reached out and placed my hand on his arm while returning his gaze. I could hear my own breath coming in and going out. “Ian. Come on.”
He looked down. “I don’t want to mess this up. I’m sorry. I need some time to sort things out.”
It was like a slap. I nodded and said okay. I think that’s what I said. I can’t actually remember. I stood up to excuse myself and the room was spinning.
I know I stumbled. He caught me. I pulled loose and I left.
* * *
Later that night at Joanna’s, I slipped inside quietly, locking the door behind me. It was close to midnight, and I hoped Jo would be asleep, preferably in the basement. I was not in the mood for either an interrogation or an argument.
Dammit!
She was awake.
I saw her from across the living room, shoulders hunched, sobbing over the kitchen sink. She was out of control, and all my anger was gone then and there. I ran to her.
“I’m sorry, Jo. I wouldn’t have gone with him if you hadn’t started throwing things. Jo. Please! Look at me?”
I tried to put my arms around her, and she shoved me away. Then she pointed to the patio, at the little palace she had built for Panda and the kittens. The overhead light was on outside and I could see Panda on her blanket. Like usual, she lay on her side, nursing the kittens. I turned back to Jo and looked at her helplessly.
“She’s dead.”
“What?”
“I was checking on them before bed. I opened the glass door, and that’s when I saw that the kittens were crying. They didn’t know what was going on. Their mom is dead. There is...” She fumbled over her words and clasped her fingers together in a tight knot to control the trembling, and I suddenly loved her even more. “I found... Someone put poison in her bowl.”
“Someone. Who?”
She threw her hands in the air and looked at me with such malice it was as if I were responsible for the death. “Starata vešterka sosed, koj drug?” she shouted, telling me, “The old witch next door, who else?” At that moment it crossed my mind, with bizarre clarity and brevity, that I had begun dreaming in Bulgarian, and she was shouting at me in Macedonian. We were going native, as it was called by the senior ex-pats, and it was probably time for a long visit home.
“It could have been her, but it could have been anyone. They hate us. They don’t want us here. They hate the Americans, all the aid workers and the other Westerners, and especially the refugees. They hate us!
“What do we do about the kittens?” I whispered, horror mounting.
Jo made a choking noise. “How the fuck do I know?”
“We can take care of them,” I said, standing directly in front of her and forcing her to look at me. “When I was growing up one of our cats died when the kittens were little and we saved two of them. I’ll look it up on the internet. I’ll find out what to do. I’ll stay a
nd help.”
“Oh you want to stay for another couple of weeks? Get in some quality time with Ian? Awesome. I must admit I envy your schedule. The artist. No. You can take your laptop and go write your little travel guide somewhere else. Find another sponsor.”
“Joanna, stop acting this way. We can fix this.”
“We,” she said, emphasizing the word and stepping away from me, “are not doing anything together. You need to leave in the morning. If you’re going to believe Ian over me after all this time, all we have been through together, then I was wrong about you.”
“I never said I believed him. You threw my boots at me and told me to get the fuck out.”
“You believe him. Just say so.”
I sighed. “You said to me a week ago, ‘He’s going to be sent home to England.’ You knew. You said it. At that restaurant in Greece.”
She laughed. “I did know! I knew you thought it was me who told. It wasn’t, but that doesn’t matter now. You know what? I thought you were the one real thing, Maddie. In all of this. In my life. But I was wrong. You have no idea how much you’ve hurt me. But good luck with Ian. Ian with the brown English teeth and the bad tattoos and no education. Oh and with the bipolar girlfriend in London. Good luck with all that. You made your choice.”
When I left for the bus station before dawn the next morning, I walked down the drive past a plastic bag that obviously contained Panda’s body. I could not bear to think about the kittens.
* * *
I was back in Sofia, but my beautiful city, my beloved home was suddenly lusterless. The once perfect plummy tomatoes were a blight on my tongue. The smell of the flowers in the park was that of a saccharine soap. The trees were twisted and the sound of the children’s laughter below my balcony was a jeering series of taunts. You’ll never have him. You’ll never get what you want.
Time dragged. I began to search the internet for cheap plane tickets home. Sofia was no longer my paradise. The colors had faded. I walked with my eyes on the ground.
After several hours of writing in the coffee and pastry shop around the corner, I stopped into the tiny grocery kiosk beneath my apartment. I was startled at the sight of the usually rosy-cheeked lady who sold me my bottled water, chocolates and wine. That afternoon, she was addled, aghast and stammering. Her bright-red permed hair with the gray roots looked as if she had just raked her fingers through it backward and then forward.
As usual she was watching her ancient black-and-white television with the bent coat hanger antennae. She’d always been so nice to me, so pleased to chat with the friendly American woman with the funny accent who taught at the university. Now she looked as if she was choking on something. Her plump finger waved again and again in the direction of the television.
“Kakvo stava?” I asked. “What’s going on?” I looked at the television and a plane was flying into the World Trade Center. Clearly the woman was watching a science-fiction film. I smiled at her. “Kakvo gledate?” What are you watching?
“Milichka,” she said, her voice shaking. She often called me little dear, but today she was looking at me with sad, world-weary eyes, as if I were actually a child. “Triyabva da se kachish i da se obadish na tvoite roditeli. Vednaga.” You need to go upstairs and call your family. At once.
MADDIE
Six weeks before
“I’ve brought you something, chicken!” Wayne says merrily, when I open the door.
Oh God, not again, I think. In the past year he’s arrived on our doorstep a number of times with baffling presents. For Charlie he’s gift-wrapped a pair of matching Harley-Davidson socks and underpants, a kid-sized shovel and the world’s largest disgusting gummy snake. He’s also brought me two bottles of perfume that he claims he bought for his seventy-year-old wife but that she didn’t like. Red Sin and Midnight Heat. Ian politely told him that I was stocked for scents. And then added, “But, Wayne, feel free to bring me something nice for a change!”
Wayne didn’t laugh.
Now he’s holding out a Crock-Pot.
“My wife was just saying how knackered you must be, all on your own. ‘Take her some of that chili you made,’ she told me. ‘She and Charlie will love it!’ she said. And you will, Maddie. I promise. Not to toot my own horn too much, but I only make this twice a year and everyone says it’s the bee’s knees.”
Apparently Wayne’s son has killed a deer, so Wayne has made a big pot of venison chili. Mmm-mmm. I take the Bambi stew over to my parents’ house and tell them to eat it.
My mom transfers the contents of Wayne’s Crock-Pot into Tupperware and chats to me all the while. “Are you cooking for Charlie?”
“I am,” I answer. “We actually don’t just stop eating completely when the man of the house goes away.”
“But not just Lunchables. Not just frozen pizza.”
“No. Just broccoli and tofu.”
She laughs and spills a plop of red stew on the floor. “I’m serious! You need to take care of yourself. You look pasty. You need to eat more meat.”
“Pasty?” I repeat, or rather stammer. “Pasty?”
“Yes. Pasty.”
“Seriously, Mom?” I say, using my hands to frame my disaster face. “I think you’re missing the five car pile-up because you’re fixated on a ding in the door.”
She drops down with a handful of paper towel to address the mess she’s made. She would rather not talk about the mess that is looking at her, waiting for a reaction.
I let it go.
My mom and dad have offered to watch Charlie this afternoon while I see Cami J. Skopie and Sophie have come along with him to the farm, to chase squirrels and dig for moles. Charlie is adorably ecstatic about each and every visit we make to my parents’ house, as if it is a special occasion rather than a weekly event. My mom spoils him with packaged ice-cream bars, and my dad helps him hunt for frogs and toads with a fishing net. Charlie’s shoes are always covered in mud when I come to pick him up, and he is always red-cheeked from being outdoors and so happy.
It’s time for me to leave.
I wave out the window to Charlie and my parents as I pull away and head down the long winding driveway. Charlie is on the front steps, and my mom is behind him, arms over his shoulders hugging him into her. My dad is already standing by the swing that hangs from the giant walnut tree in the front yard, calling for Charlie to join him.
* * *
I am wearing my Breakfast at Tiffany’s oversize sunglasses and a sundress. My scar is all but completely covered. When I get to Hometown Liquor and Video there is a brand-new young man working who doesn’t know I’ve come in a few times in the last month, so I feel pretty good about just going for it and buying not one but two half-gallon Stolichnaya vodkas. He doesn’t bat an eye except to look me up and down. He smiles as if he would like to be invited to my vodka party.
Ian Skyped me earlier and said he expects to be headed home from Nigeria by the end of next month. I’m in a good mood.
That is, until Cami J, who I’ve really started to look forward to seeing, suggests that I get a new doctor. “I understand that you’re angry with me about dashing off last time,” I say, sounding as if I’m the doctor and she the patient.
Today Cami J is dressed in holey jeans and a Rolling Stones tank top with an eighties grunge-rock plaid shirt tied around her waist. She wears her signature rhinestone cap over her long, wavy, graying hair. She is watering her ferns and looking at me with sadness and affection. “I’m not angry with you. I’m worried about you. For more reasons than one, as I think you’re aware.”
I ignore this. She has been trying to get me to talk about Ian and the night I got my injury at the campground, but I refuse to go there. “I don’t want to see anyone else,” I say, promptly appalled that I sound pouty, as if I am addressing a reluctant lover.
“Maddie, I don’t want to stop working with you. But if
I’m right, and what I saw happening with you at the end of our last session was a partial seizure—”
“Seizure!” I practically shout. “You said, ‘You’ve had a little fit, sweetie.’”
“Okay. I get it. It sounds scary, I’m sure, but it may be nothing. But if it’s not nothing, then you need to know! You need to have an electroencephalogram.”
“Is that a tongue twister? What is that?”
“An EEG is a procedure used to monitor the electrical activity in the brain.”
“To find out what?”
“To find out if there’s something off in there. Something that could be causing this sudden onset of crippling anxiety. There could be bruising or bleeding. Brain injury is one reason people develop seizures, and there are different kinds, Maddie. One type is called a psychic seizure, and it can cause all sorts of disorienting and frightening feelings. I’m not the right person to diagnose this, hon. Look, I’m a psychologist. I’m a certified journal therapist. But for this type of thing you need a neurologist.”
“They told me that I had a mild traumatic brain injury. A concussion. Nobody said anything about seeing a neurologist.”
“Nobody could have predicted you might have a seizure. I’m not even sure you had a seizure. But the other day when you kept repeating, ‘I need to get Charlie, I need to get Charlie’? It made me remember that in our first session you were clenching and unclenching your hands.”
“What does that mean?”
“I don’t know! That’s exactly what I’m trying to tell you! I don’t know. You need to see a neurologist. You need to get your head checked.”
“I can’t believe you just said I need to get my head checked.” I burst out laughing. “Okay,” I say finally. “If I find a neurologist and get this EEG done, can I still keep coming to you to do my writing?”
“Of course you can, Maddie. Of course.”
“Good.” I sit there for a second, processing these new upsetting developments, and then I remember. “Oh! I brought my homework and my photos for the photo exercise. Are we still doing that one?”