“Do you still want to drink?”
“You sound like my doctor,” she laughed. “Of course I still want to drink. You never lose the craving, apparently. But you do learn to manage it. Some times are harder than others, like around dinnertime. I mean, could you imagine going to Paris and not drinking wine or champagne? I mean, what the hell?”
“What will you do? Will you go back to New York?”
“Well, that’s kind of just it, Wylie. You’ve hit the nail on the head. I don’t really know what to do next. So I’m just hiding out here, really. Afraid to do anything.”
“But you could just go home, couldn’t you? Out to Amagansett?”
She nodded her head. “I suppose. It just seems so pointless. What am I going to do there? Write bad poetry? Take a cooking class? I can only walk on the beach so many hours a day. Oh, I’m thinking about something else maybe.”
“Like what?”
“I’m not really sure yet, but I have some ideas. I don’t want to tell you in case I don’t end up doing it, and you’ll think I’m even more of a fraud than I already am.”
“I don’t know what you’re going to do—and maybe you don’t either. But that’s not the point. The point is that the world is better with Cesca Bonet in it than not, I hope you realize that at least.”
She nodded her head back and forth, and sighed. “Is it, Wylie? Is it really? Tell me. What have I got that’s so great, huh? I mean, what have I done? Cosmo’s a successful musician. Carmen’s a doctor. Lio was a painter. They all did things. They all contributed. Made the world a better place. A more beautiful place. Me? I just flit about. Never serious about anything or anyone.”
“You’re being unfair to yourself.”
She squinted at me for a moment, then looked away. With her left hand, she removed a thin lock of her hair that been caught in her mouth. “Am I? I don’t think so.”
“Look, just because you can’t point to a canvas on the wall and say, ‘There. That’s mine,’ doesn’t mean you haven’t done anything. Some people have different gifts, different talents.”
“What have I got?”
“You have a gift that is more unique than being a painter, a musician, or even a doctor.”
She looked at me. “What is that?”
“Think of the thousands of people who go to med school every year or paint. Most of them will just be mediocre. And that’s okay because, as you say, they’re making the world a better place, even if it’s in a small way. But they don’t have the gift you do, which is to inspire.”
“Inspire?” She snorted derisively. “Sure. I inspire people to get fucked up.”
“No. That’s not what I meant. You enter a room and people notice you immediately. You have an energy, a beauty, that I’ve never seen in anyone else. You have inspired me. You always have, ever since we were kids. Whatever I have done, I have done for you. There was never a time when I didn’t want your approval, your attention. Your love. Your image was always in front of me. Nothing meant more to me. And I’m sure I’m not the only one. You may not be a painter, but you can inspire painters. You may not be a poet, but you can inspire poets. It’s because you contain the life they want to capture. They can only reflect what you are.”
She kept looking at me, a serious expression on her face. Then she picked up my hand and squeezed it. “Thank you,” she whispered.
We sat there for several minutes holding hands, saying nothing. Eventually she said: “You know, they force you to strip away your life, places like this. To tear down the artifice and see yourself for who you are, and only then can you begin to rebuild yourself. What I’ve realized is that my whole life has been empty. I’ve been able to stick at nothing. Commit to nothing. Apparently I couldn’t even commit suicide properly,” she added with a wry smile. “Now I have decided that I have to commit to something. I can’t be a fuckup my whole life.”
“What have you decided to commit to?”
She laughed. “That’s just it. I’m not sure yet.” She paused and then looked at me. “Is it too late for us? Maybe that’s it. What do you say, Wylie?”
I didn’t say anything but instead just stared at my feet.
She laughed again. “I thought so.”
It began to rain once more. Soft droplets. “Come on. Let’s go for a walk,” said Cesca, standing up.
The clinic was situated on about one hundred acres of land. Like many such institutions, it had once been a private estate. The old barns and stables had all been converted. Cesca pointed out the greenhouses and organic garden, where patients grew the vegetables that were used in the kitchen. We came to a large pond that was fenced off with wire. Signs warned against swimming. A family of ducks swam placidly on the surface. “They had to do that to prevent people from drowning themselves,” said Cesca. “But I don’t think that would stop anyone who was really serious about killing themselves, you know? It’s one of the things about this place that makes me laugh. They pretend they’re doing so much to help but really all they’re doing is putting up a little bit of wire.”
She laughed and shook her head.
“You don’t still think about killing yourself, do you?”
“God no. It was a spur-of-the-moment thing. It appealed to my romantic nature.”
She put her arm through mine. It felt so natural. That was the way things had always been with us. I had never been so comfortable with anyone in my life. We just slipped into a groove as though we had never been apart. “So how are you, Tricky Wylie? What’s new with you?”
“I’m fine. Work’s good.”
“And love? Are you still with that pretty blonde Cosmo was so mad about?”
“Yes. Kate. Um, as a matter of fact, we’re engaged.”
“You are? Congratulations.” She stopped and faced me, smiling, and grabbed both of my hands. “That’s wonderful news.”
“Thank you.” I was blushing with relief.
“When’s the big day?”
“June. In New York.”
“Good for you. Poor Cosmo,” she said, shaking her head and smiling. “He’ll be so disappointed.”
We walked on a little farther. “That’s why you left that night, isn’t it?” she asked after several moments of silence.
“Yes,” I conceded.
“I thought it might be something like that.”
“I’m sorry. I . . .”
“Don’t. Don’t say that if you don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it. I am sorry I couldn’t be there for you. But I had to make a choice.”
She nodded. “So I guess we know whom you chose.”
“It’s not like that.”
“Well, you’re the one who’s engaged to someone else.”
I stopped and turned to her. “Damn it. That’s not fair. I asked you to marry me. A number of times. And each time you shot me down. Remember Paris? That really sucked. I honestly thought you were going to marry me, and then you just disappeared. Do you know what that felt like? So don’t go around acting as though I never asked. Because I did.”
“I was wrong.”
“What were you wrong about?”
She laughed lightly. “Oh, I’ve been wrong about a lot of things. But what was I wrong about exactly with you? I should have treated you better. And I should have said yes—and meant it.”
“It’s too late now. I’m already engaged. The wedding’s in a few months.”
“I understand. It’s my fault.”
This was not what I wanted to hear. Not now. For years it was all I had wanted. Nothing more. I gazed about the woods, the silvery gray of the still-barren tree trunks. The milky white complexion of the sky. The compact dirt of the path at my feet. The dead, wet leaves lining the forest floor. Anything to avoid looking at Cesca.
“Don’t do this. Please.”
“Don’t do what? We’re encouraged here to apologize for our mistakes. It’s part of the treatment. I know I’ve hurt you, and I want to apologize.”
I looked at her.
“So, yes, I apologize for the way I treated you, Wylie. I know I played with your heart and took your love for granted. I guess I knew I could because there was so much love from you it would always last. For what it’s worth, it made me feel wonderful. That no matter what I did, someone out there would always love me. Who forgave me. It was an incredible comfort. A luxury you can’t imagine. It was like a wonderful jewel you keep in a special box and only wear on special occasions. But that doesn’t mean I didn’t love you too. I want you to know that. I did love you. Very much. I still do. At least in my own way.”
I took a deep breath and exhaled. Our eyes met, searching. “I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything.”
“I’ve already hurt one girl because of you.”
“And I apologize for that too.”
“I’m not going to do it again. I can’t.”
“I understand.”
“I let myself believe you in the past. Trusted you, and each time you just pissed on it. On me.”
“Is that how you feel?”
“How the hell else am I supposed to feel?”
“How about thinking about things from my point of view, Wylie? It’s always you, you, you. That’s the one thing about you that always bothered me. You were always so passive, playing the victim and blaming other people when things didn’t work out for you. You never thought about me as a real person, a person with flesh and blood and insecurities and a fucked-up childhood. I was always beautiful Cesca up on a pedestal to you. Don’t deny it. If I ran away from you, maybe there was a reason. If I ran away from you, maybe you should have tried a little harder to run after me. Haven’t you ever thought that it was always me coming to you? When did you ever come to me?”
She was angry now. Her chin thrust forward, her dark eyes flashing, defiant. I stared at her, stung by her accusation, pierced by my own vanity and ignorance.
“Oh God,” I said. “I’m such a fool.”
“Yes, you are, Wylie,” said Cesca, her voice gentler. “You are a fool. But you’re not alone. I’m a fool too. I just didn’t want you to think that I was just a bitch.”
“So what does this mean?”
“What do you want it to mean?”
“I don’t know. I’m too confused. What do you want from me? What can I do?”
“I don’t want you to do anything. You’re engaged. You should marry her. That’s what I want you to do. Have a family. Be happy.” She gave me her little half smile.
“But I still have feelings for you.”
“Good. I’m happy to hear that. If you loved me as you say you did, then you’d be a rotten sort of a person if you didn’t. You can love two people at the same time, but you can’t be in love with two people at the same time. It doesn’t work like that. You’ve made your choice. It’s a good one. You’ve got to grow up, Wylie. With me you’ll always be a boy. That beautiful boy I knew so long ago. But now it’s time for you to be a man.”
I nodded my head. Knowing that what she said was right. “Thank you,” I said.
“Come on,” she said. “I’ll walk you back to your car. I have to help prepare dinner tonight. It’s part of our therapy. We all take turns in the kitchen. Can you imagine? Me? I’ve threatened to make paella. Pare sent me a recipe, but I can only imagine what a disaster it will be. At least, it’ll be one of the few nights here when the food isn’t some wretched vegetarian meal. That’s the one thing about depressives and addicts. They really suck at cooking.”
We both laughed, and once again she slipped her arm through mine. “Thank you so much for coming,” she said. “I can’t tell you what it means. Sometimes you just feel completely cut off and forgotten up here. As though life outside has continued on without you, and you’ve just stopped.”
We retrieved the now-soaking bag with the mostly uneaten food in it. “Sorry you went to all that trouble,” she said, laughing. “What I had was delicious.”
I laughed too, holding up the soggy loaf. “Maybe you could use this to feed some of the ducks on the pond?”
“All right. We really aren’t supposed to, but everyone does.”
At the car, she said, “You know, there are a lot of good things I’ve learned up here. It’s been very helpful. Taking responsibility for my actions, learning to confront my fears. For a long time, I didn’t think anyone should love me. Or that I should love anyone. But I realize now you made me think otherwise. I can never thank you enough for that. What we had, no matter how fucked up it was in so many ways, was actually pretty special. I’ll never forget that.”
“Cesca . . .”
“Shhh,” she said, leaning forward and kissing me lightly on the lips. Not a passionate kiss. A loving one. An intimate one. A parting one. “Don’t say anything. Now just get out of here.”
I looked at her. The familiar face, the lovely brown eyes. I had always seen beauty, passion. Something more. Something intangible, unattainable. Now I saw something wiser, kinder. She smiled faintly and nodded her head in farewell. “When will I see you again?” I asked. “Will you let me know when you’re back in the city?”
“We’ll see,” she said. “You know I was never very good at planning that far ahead. Good-bye, Tricky Wylie. Take care of yourself and have a happy life. Thanks again for coming. You have no idea how much it meant to me.”
She turned and walked away, back up the path to the main building. I watched her until she entered the house. At the door she stopped and gave a small wave. Then she was gone.
26
SHORTLY AFTER KATE AND I RETURNED FROM OUR HONEYMOON, I received a letter from Cesca. It was postmarked from Barcelona:
Dear Tricky Wylie,
Just a short note to congratulate you on your wedding and let you know I am fine. I am back in Barcelona but behaving myself (if you can believe it!!!). There is a hospice here for people dying of AIDS and I have started working there. It’s pretty gruesome in many ways—as you can imagine—but also surprisingly wonderful. I feel like everyone here I am helping is Lio. I miss him every day but now I can still feel connected to him. I miss you too. Don’t worry about me. I have never been happier.
Molt amor,
C
And I was happy for her, of course, and relieved, but also a little skeptical. The notion of Cesca washing out bedpans or bathing the dying was as out of character as if she had written to say she was taking holy orders. I imagined that before too long she would grow bored with this new project, and the next thing I would hear from her was that she had taken up with a South American playboy and moved to Marbella.
But I underestimated her. Or, more accurately, maybe I was only now seeing an aspect of her I never knew existed—an aspect even she had not known about. She was like an athlete who had spent years building up certain muscles, while ignoring others. Now she was developing those muscles as well. And she was doing so with the zeal of a convert. It seemed to consume her, as though she was trying to atone for her wild years with an excess of selflessness, desperate to correct her deficits and bring her account back to zero.
To my relief, she was not overly pious about it. She wasn’t like one of those reformed drinkers or meat eaters who become rabid teetotalers or vegans. She knew that not everyone would be able to, or even want to, do what she did. And, I think, that made her secretly proud, even if she never said as much. To take the hard road, to deny oneself ease or comfort or pleasure, was her penance.
Yet at the same time maybe I shouldn’t have been so surprised. Cesca had always thrown herself into whatever she was doing, as determined as a dog with a bone. It was in her nature to be immoderate. It was a variation of Izzy’s theme. If she was going to do it, whether that meant making love, breaking hearts, living the high life, or helping the dying, she was going to be great at it. Like a fearless gambler, she went all in.
Where once I had sent her letters as though into the void, posting them like prayers I never expected would be a
nswered, she now became a lively, frequent, and often unprompted correspondent. Once a month or so for several years, a letter or card would arrive, their contents without presumption or agenda. Some of her notes were quite short, a line on the back of a postcard. Others could be quite chatty and amusing, often with little drawings in the margins, and they formed a sort of long-running serial about her life. I have kept them all, but here’s just one example:
Dear Tricky Wylie,
I hope this finds you and Kate well. It has been a good month here. I had a lovely visit from Carmen last week, who has grown into such a strong and wonderful woman. She was over here for a conference on AIDS—you know she has become quite an authority on the subject now, and I was very proud and impressed when I went to see her deliver a paper to the assembly. I kept thinking, That’s my sister! That’s my sister! I remember when she was young and was terrified of spiders, even the most harmless daddy longlegs, and how I would have to hold her hand tightly and lead her trembling past a cobweb or scoop the spider up in my hands and take it out of the room before she could enter. I would never kill them because Pare had once told me that it was bad luck to kill a spider and besides they were the artists of the insect world, each web a miracle of creation. But now she is all grown up. She got married last year—did I tell you? I can’t remember. It was a small affair. She emailed me afterwards apologizing for not inviting me. That it had been a spur-of-the-moment thing. One day she and her husband—David is his name. I haven’t met him yet but he sounds lovely. He’s also a doctor—they just went to the city clerk’s office on their lunch break and got married. I probably wouldn’t have gone anyway, you know? Not that I wouldn’t have enjoyed it but my work here keeps me so busy and so many people need me that I don’t see how I could have taken the time. Anyway, she has the best news of all: She is pregnant! When she told me we just laughed and cried at the same time, jumping up and down like a couple of lunatics. The baby is due in five months. How exciting! (When are you and Kate going to have a baby??? Quit wasting time!!!)
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