“I can’t, I mean—what are the chances of seeing you here?” I say, finding it hard to swallow.
“Probably none.” He smiles, one corner of his mouth turning up at a time. Tiny hints of gray at his temples, that’s the only change. They break my heart—the flecks of gray, the time we lost. Another pause.
I say, “Well, it’s nice to see you again. I’m sorry…We never…a lot happened.” What I mean is that I’m sorry I didn’t call the number that he left by the phone at my parents’ house. I’m sorry that I didn’t answer the letters he sent. I kept them all. Life got complicated.
He says, “Yes, it was a terrible time, I’m sure.” He’s kind. Just like he was then.
Neither of us knows what to say next. I’m terrified there’ll be a silence and I’ll lose the moment so I say, “I always wondered where you went when you left our house?” I run my hands through my hair nonchalantly to spot-check how bad it is. It’s bad. I put my sunglasses on top of my head for a makeshift headband. Can’t do anything about the face, though. I don’t know what to do with the cup of dirt.
“I went back to the ferry terminal and some very helpful local Staten Islanders directed me to a fantastic little hotel. Very reasonable, they only charged for every hour of your stay, quite an efficient system, really.” He’s funny, I forgot. Another pause. There’s too much to say. He says, “How are your parents?”
“They’re OK. Same, really. It’s still hard for them.”
“I’m so sorry about your brother. I can’t imagine how awful it was for all of you. I didn’t know how to find you again. I wanted to…I didn’t know…if you had a memorial? Maybe it wasn’t my place, but I’ve never forgotten. You must know that.”
“You were there for the worst part. I haven’t forgotten that either.” I look in his eyes for the first time. I’m embarrassed because I have no makeup on and I’m a decade older and I know how life has written itself across my face but I never thanked him. Trying not to look away, I say, “Thank you for everything you did, I never said thank you.”
A gust of wind, a seagull cry overhead, I want to touch his face. He says, “Well, I…you’re welcome, you would have done the same.” Another silence.
Then he says, “When we were allowed back into the building after the lockdown I looked for you. Waited in the lobby of your building too, checked for you in the coffee shop.”
“I didn’t go back. I couldn’t keep coming downtown every day. It was too close to where he died. I got a different job—in Midtown.” I don’t say that on the day I went to clean out my desk I waited for him in the coffee shop too, hoping he would come down. That one time, maybe five years ago, I thought I saw him on Wall Street walking and talking on his phone, but I was with my boss and we were late for a meeting and I couldn’t stop. But when the guy turned around I saw it wasn’t him and I was relieved because I don’t know what I would have said with my heart in my mouth, unable to catch my breath at the thought of finding him.
“Well, would you…” he starts to say as our eyes meet but then, “Jeej! Look at this!” Johnny runs over, grabs hold of my leg and shows me a red leaf.
“This is Johnny,” I say to Harry. “He’s the one who made this coffee.” I hold up my cup of dirt. Harry hides his surprise. He bends down to meet Johnny’s eyes and says, “Hello there, young man. I’m Harry. I saw you running. That was very fast indeed.”
Johnny says, “I’m three, then I’m gonna be four,” and gives Harry the leaf.
“Thank you very much, I don’t have one like this.” He stands up and looks at me from under his brow, I forgot his velvet lashes, how they framed his eyes, and he says, “Are you married, then?” Is he hurt, does it hurt him to think that?
“Um, no, but…” I’m about to explain, to tell him where Johnny came from, but behind me there’s a rush of perfume and affluence.
“Hello.” A tall, thin, gorgeous blonde. Prada sunglasses and a Burberry trench. A statement handbag so expensive that I don’t know the brand. She’s British too. Harry says, “Oh, right…Gigi, this is Hannah.” She looks at me and Johnny, appalled at my leggings and hoodie under my 1995 Gap jean jacket but otherwise indifferent. She’s decided that I’m not competition. Her sunglasses would pay half my rent, that coat would pay for a month of day care. I hate her and I want to be her, which makes me hate her more. I can tell they don’t have kids. She looks at Johnny in a way she must reserve for hotel maids and homeless people and people whose accents she can’t understand.
“Mmm, pleasure.” She doesn’t put out her hand. She turns away. Pretends to have to stand perpendicular to me because of the wind in her hair—her blow-dried, highlighted, expensive hair. I wonder if the word for “bitch” is the same in British.
Harry’s embarrassed by her rudeness, or I hope that he is. He says, “We haven’t seen each other for ten, eleven years, can you believe that, Hannah, just ran into each other right here.”
“Yes,” she says. “Well, we have reservations, don’t we, mustn’t be late.” She can’t wait to get out of here and away from our cheap clothes and real life so I string it out a little longer.
I say, “You going somewhere nice?”
Harry says, “Brunch at Soho House.”
“Oh, that is nice,” I say.
“Do you know it?” Hannah asks, surprised that the likes of me would know the name of a private members’ fancy-ass establishment.
“Yeah, Johnny loves their brunch, especially the Bloody Marys.” Harry laughs. Hannah disapproves. I blush and look away, trying not to be melted by his smile.
Johnny, who’s been holding on to my leg patiently, is getting restless now so I lift him up to my hip. This is coming to an end. Shit. At least when I didn’t know where Harry was I had a fantasy that I would find him someday and he would like me and maybe…but that was something I made up to look forward to in a future that I knew would never come. A memory I relied on to ease my loneliness. But he’s got this blond chick with the yoga body and the heels on Saturday morning. Of course he does, why wouldn’t he.
I watch as Harry bends down and pretends to tie his shoelace but then pulls a quarter from behind Johnny’s ear. The three of us smile at each other. I don’t know this man at all but there’s the feeling that no one knows me better than him. On the worst day of my life he bandaged my bleeding mother and poured whiskey for my trembling father. And now that he’s standing here, I know him too. I don’t know what he drinks or if he loves his mother, but I know him. And I’ve missed him.
I’m looking for the words to let him know somehow but then Johnny says, “Jeej, Jeej, I need a piss.” He sounds like a very small Al Pacino. Harry smiles and Hannah looks at me like I’m supposed to reprimand Johnny and be embarrassed, but I don’t because I’m not.
“Sorry,” I say to them. “You know they pick things up everywhere,” which is a lie because I know he picked it up from me. I say, “We’d better go.”
Harry says, “Gigi, wait, I…” but Hannah’s already turned to leave and stops to look at him over her shoulder, pissed off or maybe that’s just her face. He’s hers. So I defer.
“Um, I got to deal with Johnny. Nice to meet you, Hannah. Have a nice brunch or whatever.” Harry stands with his arms crossed and I lean forward to touch the visible bone of his wrist. A small show of gratitude for the past and recognition that his future lies somewhere else. “I’m glad I saw you again,” I say, looking at the ground, because the eyes are too much.
I turn to go, Johnny running ahead of me. I know Harry’s watching us walk away but my ass isn’t what it used to be. Nothing’s what it used to be. I regret every step but I don’t turn around.
On the subway back to Brooklyn Johnny leans his whole little body into me while he zooms his Matchbox car in the air, pretending it’s a rocket, his eyes turned to a galaxy that only he can se
e on the ceiling of the C train. I watch Johnny play and feel bad about myself. What a loser. That was my chance, a one-in-a-million chance of finding him again and now it’s over. Jesus, Gigi, get a grip. A nonexistent boyfriend from a decade ago. You’re right, I know.
I watch Johnny whizz his car-rocket around, tell him to be careful not to bump the lady next to us, who’s acting like she’s not annoyed but clearly is. In Johnny’s other hand he’s clutching a white business card. I say, “What’s this, baby?”
“It’s mine from in my pocket.” He won’t let go of it.
“Let me see. Where did you get…” I wrestle it from his hand, in case it’s something dirty he picked up off the floor, expecting an ad for tarot card reading or a taxi service. I flip it over and read: Harry Harrison, Vice President, European Equity Sales.
Brooklyn and Manhattan, October 2012–September 2013
“Jeej, c’mon, remember what Tyra says. If you’re doing legs, don’t do boobs at the same time,” Stacy says, reviewing my outfits. She came over to do my makeup and babysit Johnny so I could go meet Harry. She rejects every dress I try on until we finally get to the black one. Tight, bare shoulders but no cleavage and short. Not that I have such great legs, but Stacy let me borrow her nice heels so they look alright.
“Should I put some tanner on my legs? I don’t know about this, Stace,” I ask her through the mirror.
“Absolutely no fake tan. Have you learned nothing from watching Top Model for ten years?”
“Belt?”
“No belts! Jesus, what an amateur.”
She sits me down to work on my face. “What’re we doing here? Big eyes or big lips? One or the other, never both. And are you sure you know what you’re doing?”
“What?”
“Jeej, this guy—it’s a little crazy.”
“I know.”
“Turn this way so I can do your foundation,” she says, tilting my chin toward her. “I just don’t want you to get too wrapped up in it. You haven’t been out with anyone for forever, so I don’t want you to get too excited, in case he’s not what you think. I just want to make sure you know what you’re doing.”
“Yeah, I do,” I say, but I don’t. I’m worried all the time. I’m sad and alone. I’m so tired of being alone. I love that kid so much that it’s ripping my heart out to leave him tonight. I’m wearing a dress that cost eighteen bucks from one of the stalls on Canal Street and borrowed shoes and I got enough makeup on for three hookers. Like an asshole, I decided to cut my hair yesterday, and now I look like Posh Spice in an outfit from Walmart. I’m meeting a man who gave his business card to my kid so his “friend” wouldn’t see. But I think I love him because he bought me coffee once years ago. I have no idea what I’m doing.
But then his hand presses into the small of my back to protect me from the homicidal taxicabs and he slows to my pace and covers me like a shield. Just with the press of his hand on my back to cross the street he’s told me what kind of man he is. I’ve always known.
He takes me to a pulsing-velvet-champagne-lounge with the beautiful people. This part of New York that I’ve never had enough money to see. His eyes and hands tell me that me and my cheap dress belong here. With him. And I believe him.
Harry finds a place at the bar. I hop up on a stool and he keeps his hand on my waist, stronger, closer than before, resting on the top of my hip, making it clear that that space belongs to him. He gets the bartender’s attention, leans over me more than he has to. He whispers in my ear but I feel it everywhere. He smells like soap, clean-man skin and aftershave. He has stubble despite the shave and it scrapes my cheek but I like it.
Ice clinks in my vodka tonic when I raise my glass. I bite my straw, cross my legs and ask him if he likes my shoes. Make sure he gets the full view.
“They’re lovely, but I’m not sure how far you’d get in those.”
“They’re not for walking.”
He smiles, a sideways smile, the way men do when they’re trying not to show you how much they like you.
We’re supposed to go out for dinner after this but I’ve had a few drinks and I want to pretend that it’s ten years ago when I was younger and prettier, when I didn’t need so much foundation to hide the lines, because there were none. I tell my mid-thirties body to act like the girl in her twenties is still in there even if things around my middle are softer than they used to be. I wish he could’ve touched me back then.
The cab pulls into the circular driveway in front of one of the luxury high-rises in the forties along Tenth Avenue overlooking the Hudson. The lobby has pink marble walls and floors. A glass light sculpture the size of a car hangs suspended two stories above us. Uniformed doormen in navy-blue jackets sit behind the desk drinking coffee in paper cups and reading the New York Post.
“Good evening, gentlemen,” Harry says as we go past.
“How you doin’, Mr. Harrison.”
I’m glad that he’s nice to the doormen. He’s nice to cabdrivers and waiters too. He hasn’t turned into a dick in the last decade. That’s a relief.
The elevator is mirrored on all sides. Emboldened by the alcohol and the rush of being out at night, which I haven’t been for a long time, I remind myself that I waxed and I remember my affirmations. I am enough, goddammit, and I push him up against one wall, drop my coat and make sure he can see the reflection of my back, my leg wrapped around his waist while he watches himself kiss my shoulders, runs a finger along the tight top of my dress, teasing me, fumbling with the zipper up the back, caught off guard when I slip my hand under his belt. We’ve got thirty floors to go.
A deep inhale, he shuts his eyes. A light kiss. When we get to his floor he holds the doors open but won’t let me out. “I’m afraid I can’t let you out without a password, Miss Stanislawski,” so I bite his ear, kiss his neck, and when he still won’t move I unbuckle his belt, crouch down, and just when he thinks that what he wants to happen is about to happen, I pull his jeans down to his ankles and run. And we laugh, and I get a good head start on him while he’s still pulling up his pants by the elevator. We play chase down the halls, I’m running with my shoes in my hand until he catches me and we’re laughing and breathless.
He opens his apartment door. We keep the lights off, but the whole room is lit by the glow from the neon signs and buildings across the street throwing sharp shadows across the room. It’s a small apartment, but big for New York, with one window stretching its whole length. I brace myself with one arm against it, the other wrapped around his neck, and that’s where it happens, up against the window with the twinkling roof lights blinking at us, visible but unseen, naked but clothed in shadows, thirty-eight stories above the streets of New York City.
But there’s more than this. More than the rough, rugged sweat and smell and rocking rawness of skin-on-skin and flesh-in-flesh. There’s sleep. Sleep with him curled around my back, the rise and fall of his chest against my shoulder blades. Real sleep. Not semiconsciousness on alert for danger. Not waking up with my hand already on the hammer under the mattress when I hear a noise. Real sleep with Harry’s arms tangled around me, his hand still holding mine. I wake up and look at him, jealous of his long lashes, in love with his warm skin.
After that night we have lots more nights like that. Sometimes we have nights eating takeout and drinking wine on the roof of his building, where you can see Tenth Avenue laid out like a sparkling runway. Sometimes we have nights in my place in Brooklyn, eating pizza and watching Toy Story with Johnny. Johnny jumps off the arm of the sofa and onto Harry’s back a hundred times and Harry lets him, pretending that Johnny’s knocked him out, or that Johnny’s an astronaut and they’re landing on the Moon. And my boy laughs and laughs.
There are a thousand moments when we laugh. Harry asked me for a tea towel to clean up something Johnny spilled. I said, “What the hell is a tea t
owel? You mean a paper towel?”
And I held out the roll and he said, “What’s a paper towel? This is kitchen roll.”
I said, “What are you talking about?”
“No, a tea towel, this thing.”
He held it up and I said, “A dishcloth? Is that what you mean?” and whatever was spilled just sank into the sofa while Harry and Johnny chased me around the apartment waving every dishcloth that we had. We ended up in a pile on the floor, the three of us, out of breath, surveying the apartment wrapped in a whole roll of unwound paper towels, Johnny laughing into the cardboard tube, listening to the sound of his happiness amplified.
Then at bedtime, against my better judgment, we start to act like a couple, like parents, reading to Johnny and putting him to bed together.
“Harry, have you ever drove a race car?” Johnny asks him.
“No, I haven’t.”
“Where do you work?” Little face cocked sideways, suspicious.
“At a bank. It’s quite dull, I’m afraid.” Harry smiles, but shows Johnny he takes him seriously.
Johnny’s not done. “You been to Central Park?”
“Yes, I have, quite a few times.”
“D’you like trucks?” Johnny’s got a lot to cover.
“I do indeed.”
“What’s your favorite animal?” Johnny’s rubbing his eyes now. He’s tired but the answer is critical.
“The cheetah. It’s the fastest.”
“Faster than a race car?”
“Almost as fast as a normal car.”
“Good, I’m gonna put that in my bemembery.”
When I Ran Away Page 6