Look, Tully
.
I don’t want to.
Look
.
I am moving in spite of my intention not to. A cold dread has taken hold of me. It
is worse than the pain. I know what I am going to see on that sleek table.
Me. And not me, somehow.
My body is on the table, draped in blue, bloodied. The nurses and the surgeon are
talking; someone is shaving my head.
I look so small and pale without hair, childlike. Someone in scrubs paints a brown
liquid on my bald head.
I hear a sound like a buzz saw starting up and I feel sick to my stomach.
“I don’t like it here,” I say to Kate. “Take me somewhere.”
We’ll always be here, but close your eyes.
“Gladly.”
The sudden darkness scares me this time. I don’t know why. It’s weird, really, because
I harbor a lot of dark emotions in my soul, but fear isn’t one of them. I’m not afraid
of anything.
Ha. You are more afraid of love than any person I’ve ever met. It’s why you keep testing
people and pushing them away. Open your eyes.
I open my eyes and, for a second it is still dark, then color bleeds down from the
impenetrable blackness above, falling like those computer codes in
The Matrix,
solidifying in strands. First comes the sky, a perfect, cloudless blue, and then
the cherry trees in bloom—tufts of pink blossoms clinging to branches and floating
in the sweet air. Buildings sketch themselves into place, pink gothic structures with
elegant wings and towers, and finally the green, green grass, inlaid with concrete
walkways going this way and that. We are at the University of Washington. The colors
are painfully vivid. There are young men and women everywhere—kids—carrying backpacks
and playing hacky sack and lying on the grass with books open in front of them. Somewhere
a boom box is turned on as high as it will go and a scratchy version of “I’ve Never
Been to Me” comes through the speakers. God, I hated that song.
“None of this is real,” I say, “right?”
Real is relative
.
Not far from where we are sitting in the grass, a pair of girls are stretched out
side by side; one is brunette, the other is blond. The blonde is wearing parachute
pants and a T-shirt and has a Trapper Keeper notebook open in front of her. The other
girl—okay, it’s me, I know it, I can remember when I wore my hair all ratted up like
that and pulled back from my face in a huge metallic bow, and I remember the cropped,
off-the-shoulder white sweater. It had been my favorite. They—we—look so young I can’t
help smiling.
I lie back, feeling the grass prickling beneath my bare arms, smelling its sweet,
familiar scent. Kate does the same. We are together again, both staring up at the
same blue sky. How many times in our four years at the UW did we do exactly this?
The light around us is magical, as clear and sparkly as champagne glimpsed in sunlight.
In its glow I feel so peaceful. My pain is a distant memory here, especially with
Kate beside me again.
What happened tonight?
she asks, ripping a little of that peace away.
“I can’t remember.” It’s true, strangely. I can’t remember.
You can remember. You don’t want to.
“Maybe there’s a good reason for that.”
Maybe
.
“Why are you here, Kate?”
You called for me, remember? I came because you need me. And to remind you.
“Of what?”
Memories are who we are, Tul. In the end, that’s all the luggage you take with you.
Love and memories are what last. That’s why your life flashes before your eyes when
you die—you’re picking the memories you want. It’s like packing.
“Love and memories? Then I am double-Oreo fucked. I don’t remember anything, and love—”
Listen
.
A voice is speaking. “Will she be herself when she wakes up?”
“Hey,” I say. “That’s—”
Johnny.
The way she says her husband’s name is full of love and pain.
“…
if
she wakes up is really the question…” A male voice.
Wait. They are talking about my
death
. And the chance of something worse—a brain-damaged life. An image flashes through
my mind—me, confined to bed, held together by tubes, unable to think or speak or move.
I concentrate hard and I am in the hospital room again.
Johnny is standing by my bed, looking down at me. A stranger in blue scrubs is beside
him.
“Is she a spiritual woman?” This from the stranger.
“No. I wouldn’t say so,” Johnny says tiredly. He sounds so sad I want to take his
hand, even after all that has happened between us, or maybe because of it.
He sits down by the bed where my body is. “I’m sorry,” he says to the me that can’t
hear.
I have waited so long to hear those words from him, but why? I can see now that he
loves me. I can see it in his moist eyes, in his shaking hands, in the way he bows
his head to pray. He doesn’t pray—I know him better than that; it is defeat, that
lowering of his chin to his chest.
He will miss me, even after all of it.
And I will miss him.
“Fight, Tully.”
I want to answer him, to let him know that he has reached me, that I am
here,
but nothing works. “Open your eyes,” I say to my body. “Open your eyes. Tell him
you’re sorry, too.”
And then he starts to sing in a cracked, croaking voice. “Just a small town girl…”
God, I love that man,
Kate says.
He is halfway through the song when someone else walks into the room. A beefy man
in a cheap brown sport coat and blue slacks. “I’m Detective Gates,” the man says.
I hear the words
car accident
and images flash through my mind—a rainy night, a concrete stanchion, my hands on
the steering wheel. It almost becomes a memory. I can feel it coming together, meaning
something, but before I can put it together, I am hit in the chest so hard I fall
back against the wall. The pain is crushing, excruciating.
CODEBLUECALLDRBEVAN.
“Kate!” I scream, but she is gone.
The noises are thunderous now, echoing and banging and beeping. I can’t breathe. The
pain in my chest is killing me.
ALLCLEAR.
I am thrown into the air like a kid’s rag doll, and up there, I burst into flames.
When it’s over, I’m floating again, falling alongside the starlight.
Kate takes my hand in the darkness, and instead of falling, we are flying. We touch
down, soft as a butterfly landing, in a pair of worn wooden chairs that face the beach.
The world is dark but somehow electrically bright: white, white moon, endless stars,
candles flickering in Mason jars from the branches of an old maple tree.
Her back deck. Kate’s.
Here, the pain is an echo, not the beat. Thank God for that.
I hear Kate breathing beside me. In each exhalation I smell lavender and something
else, snow, maybe.
Johnny fell apart,
she says, reminding me of where we were before—talking about my life.
I didn’t think he would
.
“We all did.” That’s the sad, sorry truth of it. “You were the glue that held us together.
Without you…”
There is a long silence; in it, I wonder if she is remembering her life, her loves.
How does it feel to know that people couldn’t handle living without you? How does
it feel to know you were loved by so many people?
What happened to you after he moved to Los Angeles?
I sigh. “Can’t I just walk into the damned light and be done with all this?”
You yelled for me, remember? You said you needed me. I’m here. And this is why: you
need to remember. This is it. So, talk.
I lean back in the chair, staring up at a votive candle burning within the rounded
glass sides of the Mason jar. Rough twine holds the jar in place; an impossible breeze
touches it every now and then, splashing light into the dark lower branches of the
tree. “After you died, Johnny and the kids moved to Los Angeles. It happened fast,
that moving. Your husband just up and decided he was going to Los Angeles, and the
next thing I knew, he and the kids were gone. I remember saying goodbye in November
of 2006, standing with your mom and dad in the driveway, waving goodbye. After that,
I went home and crawled …
into bed. I know I need to go back to work, but I can’t do it. Honestly, the very
idea is overwhelming. I can’t summon the strength to begin the process of starting
my life over without a best friend. At that, loss weighs me down and I close my eyes.
It’s okay to be depressed for a while, who wouldn’t be?
Somehow I lose two weeks. I mean, I don’t really
lose
them. I know where they are, and where I am. I am like some wounded animal in a darkened
lair, nursing the thorn in my paw, unable to find anyone to pull it out. I call Marah
every night at eleven o’clock. I know that she can’t sleep, either. I lie in my bed,
listening to her complain about her father’s decision to move, and I tell her that
it will be okay, but neither of us believes it. I promise to visit soon.
Finally, I can’t stand it anymore. I throw the covers off me and go through my condo,
turning on lights and opening containers. Light fills the rooms, and in its glare
I see myself for the first time: my hair is tangled and dirty, my eyes are glazed-looking,
and my clothes are a wrinkled mess.
I look like my mother. I am ashamed and embarrassed that I have fallen so far and
so fast.
It is time to recover.
There it is. My goal. I can’t just lie around missing my best friend and grieving
for what is gone. I have to put all of this behind me and go on.
I know how to do that. I’ve been doing it all my life. I call my agent, make an appointment
to see him. He is in Los Angeles: I will see my agent, get back to work, and surprise
Johnny and the kids with a visit.
Yes. Perfect. A plan.
With an appointment made, I feel better. I take a shower and style my hair with care.
I notice that I am gray at the roots.
When did that happen?
Frowning, I try to hide it by pulling my hair back into a ponytail. I apply makeup
with a heavy hand. I’m going out into the world, after all, and there are cameras
everywhere these days. I dress in the only thing that fits comfortably over my widening
hips—a black knit pencil skirt, knee-length boots, and a black silk fitted blouse
with an asymmetrical collar.
I do well—I mean, I call my travel agent and make reservations and get dressed, and
all the while I am smiling, thinking,
I can do this, of course I can
—and then I open the door of my condo and I feel a flash of panic. My throat goes
dry, my forehead prickles with sweat, my heartbeat speeds up.
I am
afraid
to leave my house.
I don’t know what in the hell is wrong with me, but I won’t stand for it. I take a
deep breath and plunge forward. All the way to the elevator, and down to my car, and
into the driver’s seat. I can feel my heart thudding in my chest.
I start the car and drive out into the busy, bustling Seattle street. A heavy rain
is falling, clattering drops on my windshield, obscuring my view. Every single second,
I want to turn back, but I don’t. I force myself to keep going, until I am on the
plane, seated in first class.
“Martini,” I say to the flight attendant. The look on her face reminds me that it
is not yet noon. Still, a drink is all I can think of to help get me through this
embarrassing episode.
Softened by two martinis, I finally am able to lean back in my seat and close my eyes.
I will be better once I am back to work. It has always been my salvation.
In Los Angeles, I see a driver, dressed in black, holding up a sign.
HART.
I hand him my small calfskin overnight bag and follow him out to a waiting Town Car.
On the drive from LAX to Century City, the traffic is bumper-to-bumper. People on
these freeways honk constantly, as if it will make a difference, and motorcycles zip
dangerously between lanes.
I lean into the cushy seat and close my eyes, taking a moment to collect my thoughts
and organize my ideas. Now that I am here, moving forward, taking my life back, I
feel a little calmer. Or maybe it is the martinis. Either way, I am ready for my comeback.
The car pulls up to the imposing white building identified only by a discreet carved
sign:
CREATIVE ARTISTS AGENCY.
Inside, the building is an endless stretch of white marble and glass, like a giant
icehouse, and equally as cold. Everyone is dressed well, in expensive suits. Beautiful
women and gorgeous men move through what looks like a magazine shoot.
The girl at the front desk doesn’t recognize me. Not even when I say my name.
“Oh,” she says, her gaze disinterested. “Is Mr. Davison expecting you?”
“Yes,” I say, trying to maintain a smile.
“Take a seat, please.”
Honestly, I feel like putting this girl in her place, but I know I need to be careful
in the hallowed halls of CAA, so I bite my tongue and take a seat in the modernly
decorated waiting room.
Where I wait.
And wait.
At least twenty minutes after my scheduled appointment time, a young man in an Italian
suit comes for me. Wordlessly, like a drone, he leads me up to the third floor and
into a corner office.
My agent, George Davison, is seated behind a huge desk. He stands at my entrance.
We hug, a little awkwardly, and I step back.
“Well. Well,” he says, indicating a chair for me.
I sit down. “You look good,” I say.
He glances at me. I see the way he notices my weight gain, and my ponytail doesn’t
fool him. He sees the gray in my hair. I shift uncomfortably in my seat.
“Your call surprised me,” he says.
“It hasn’t been that long.”
“Six months. I left at least a dozen messages for you. None of which were returned.”