Authors: Emily Franklin
The real being, of course, that I have unresolved issues with Jacob. Not with Lindsay. Lindsay’s a known entity — nothing she does or says or inflicts should be surprising. But Jacob — he’s the one I thought I knew. And yet I never would have predicted he’d fall prey to Lindsay’s hot body and mean spirit. For some reason I put his morals and desires above the random hook-up.
The college counseling building remains, comfortingly — annoying — the exact same as when I left. Sturdy bookcases filled with college catalogues, pamphlets, leaflets, lots of lets and yet none that reads “This is Where Love should Apply, Be Accepted and Go”.
Only as I wait for Mrs. Dandy-Patinko to free herself from the tangle of her headphones do I admit it — not even in my journal because putting it on paper would make it too real. In my mind I say, very small, like I’m talking to myself in lower case — Lindsay hooked up with Jacob. He hasn’t been pining for me. He has put his mouth, which is lovely full but not too full so as to be pouchy — on her mouth. She probably had her hands tucked into his dark mop of curls.
Never mind that I’ve been kissing — and beyond — close to sleeping with Asher. And never mind that I haven’t even seen Jacob in almost a year. But the thought of him with Lindsay makes my stomach turn. The other students waiting for college counseling don’t look at me as I seethe; they’re all too focused on their own problems — SATs, college interviews (um, hello, note to self: need to get butt in gear for those and feet in non-flip flops to make studious impression), and the dreaded SIBOF scores that Hadley uses to Magic-Eight Ball your college track. Maybe they predict where you’ll get in so they can claim “very high acceptance rates to students’ top choice colleges” in their catalogue. Hey, maybe my brain is finally off the thaw status and back to thinking clearly (until seven-thirty tonight when I crash and loose the ability to do simple math).
Mrs. Dandy-Patinko, my good-natured bosomy college counselor, appears at the doorway to (no, not hell — that’s Lindsay’s dorm room in Fruckner House) her office. She straightens her hair and smiles — one of us is the lucky person who is next in line to focus on their futures.
“I’m ready for Love!” Mrs. Dandy-Patinko announces.
Aren’t we all?
“Hello,” the now-face familiar head nurse on Mable’s floor greets me in her hushed tones at the nurses’ station. “Before your visit today, we’d like to have a word.”
My heart races, my chest throbs, my knees threaten to buckle. I didn’t tell my dad I was coming today so there’s no chance he would have prepared me for the worst — if that’s what this is.
“Can I please just see my aunt?” I ask. I live in constant fear that one day I will come for a visit and she will just be gone. That panic-response makes me edgy. “I really need to get in there.” I make a move towards the corridor that leads to her room, but I’m stopped in my tracks by Nurse Insensitive who asks me to please take a seat in the waiting room.
I do as I’m told, surrounded by other anxious people connected by grief or worry. Someone hands me a cup of coffee without speaking — I wonder if she is here visiting a friend, or her mother, or partner. Who knows? I nod a thank you and sip the tepid cup of Joe (note to self: add cup of Joe to annoying phrase list in journal). No one’s coffee is as good as Mable’s. Slave to the Grind is the best. Of course I’m biased, but it’s smooth, strong, and rich without being overbearing. Oh my god, I think, I sound like I’m describing Asher. After a couple more sips, I am greeted by a familiar and welcoming face, Margaret Randall, Mable’s favorite nurse. She’s also Henry Randall’s (AKA Preppy Vineyard Boy) aunt and really nice. She’s become chummy with my dad and was friendly to me before I left for London.
“Love — it’s good to see you,” she shakes my hand and I’m thankful for the reminder of her first name. She’s so down to earth it’s funny to think of her as being related to Henry’s dad, Trip Randall III, who owns half of the Vineyard (including the café whrre Slave to the Grind II is opening this summer).
“Hi, Margaret.” She looks at me and I know she has bad news. I calm myself down by picking at the Styrofoam cup on not-Joe and breath through my nose like I do when I’m running long-distance.
“As you know, Mable’s been having a pretty rough time after the second mastectomy,” Margaret says. It’s clear form her soft tone and gentle way of touching my hand that she’s done this before. I’m kicking myself for not taking Chris up on his offer to come with me. I just felt guilty asking him to drive yet again with me when he could be working, wallowing, or crushing on campus.
I nod at Margaret. “You can just say what you need to say. I probably know it already anyway.”
Margaret’s expression changes. “Oh, you do? Well, then, I think I say for everyone here that we’re sorry. And we wish it had worked out.”
I start to bawl. Margaret puts her arms around me. “Were you and Miles close?”
I pull back and look at her. ‘What?”
“You and Miles — Mable’s fiancé — were you close with him? I know you were going to be a bridesmaid and…”
My world is spinning and I am close to barfing in the family lounge area. “I’m so confused — what are you talking about? How does Miles factor into anything if Mable’s in a coma — or worse?” Even saying the words makes me need to sit down. My dad should be here with me. Isn’t it illegal to tell bad news to a minor? I need an emotional judge for this ruling.
Margaret covers her face. “I’m so sorry, Love. On behalf of Mass General and myself, I apologize that you inferred that. Mable is actually much better — she turned a corner last night and is up and talking.”
I’m doing breathing that’s close to mutt-pants (note to self, do not make joke about mutt pants being a new trend — first boot cut, now Mutt Pants) — “So then what’s the bad news? Why the grief-talk?”
Margaret clicks her tongue. “She broke it off with Miles.”
“Again?” I shake my head. “I don’t care — just let me see her.”
“Of course,” Margaret waits for me to stand up and leads me past the nurses’ station and over the cold linoleum tiles towards Mable. “I think she thought you’d be upset, that you were looking forward to being in the wedding.”
“That’s the furthest thing from my mind,” I say and walk through Mable’s door to find her sitting up spooning Jell-o from a small plastic cup into her mouth. Her face is still pale, her lips dry. She’s cogent and cheerful, better than she has been since I’ve been back, though and talks fast to prove it.
“I forgot how good raspberry flavor is!” Mable says and gestures with the wobbly dessert like it’s champagne. “Of course, you probably spell flavor with a u — that’s so British. Like neighbour and colour. I went through a horrid phase in my early twenties of spelling everything Britishly. I know. Britishly is not a word. But I did — I spelled color c-o-l-o-u-r and everything. So lame!” She smiles at me; a real, full-on smile and I grin back.
“You’re insane! It’s like, I’m unconscious — no I’m not, now I’m awake and speed-speaking!” I say and rush over and hug her, careful not to do it too hard lest I disturb any of the tubes. I haven’t seen her awake like this in so long; even when I visited before, she didn’t really know I was there, although she did mumble a lot.
“I’m not insane — well, not completely. I’m so glad to see you, British Lady.” She pats my hair and I feel her familiar hand on my head and start to cry. I’m just a flood these days and I can’t help it.
“Oh no, Love,” Mable lets me sob a little, Margaret excuses herself and I just wail. “I’m okay. I’m going to be okay.”
I sit up and sniffle, unable to let go of Mable’s hand. “I’ll tell you about the situation between me and Miles in a second. First, let’s talk a little about this summer — Slave to the Grind is waiting for you.”
“And Arabella, right? She can still come?”
“Of course,” Mable says. Then she pulls the nurse button and I panic again. “It’s nothing health-related, Love.” When Margaret reappears Mable says, “Didn’t you have something for Love?”
Margaret pulls an envelope out of her pocket and hands it to me. “My nephew Henry came by to visit Mable. He hoped to see you but I told him you were in London for a while. Anyway, he left this.” Margaret’s pager blips and she hurries out of the room.
Mable raises her eyebrows at me as I look at what Henry left for me and I roll my blues at her. “It’s not like that. Henry’s just a really nice guy.”
The card reads:
Tried to find you at Brown again — you must be really busy — I never seem to catch you on campus. Hope your college trip abroad was enlightening but not so much that you stay there forever (we’d miss you stateside). Hope your aunt feels well and that this note finds you happy and at home. —Henry
Friendly, slightly formal, not too this, not too that.
“Yeah,” I nod at the note. “He’s just really nice.”
“Sure — a really nice, handsome rich guy who is so kind he visits your sickly aunt while you’re off partying in London.”
“One — I didn’t party in London. Okay, a little I did. And two, don’t make me feel guilty that I wasn’t here the whole time.” I look in to her eyes and she smirks.
“I wasn’t guilt-tripping you. All I meant was, Henry seems pretty decent.”
I shake my head and gather my hair up into a ponytail then let it fall. Mable twirls the end of some strands. “I’m all set in the guy department,” I say.
“Do they have that at Bloomingdale’s these days? I thought you had to custom order them on line. Silly me.” She motions for me to help her with her pillow so she can lie flat. “All I’m saying is I’ve been out there a long time and sometimes when you think you’re all set with romance, it vanishes.”
My cheeks blush for no good reason. “I’m sure that happens. But with Asher — it’s good. Things are good. I’m going to bring him to meet you when he visits.” I pause and then Mable overlaps with me as I say, “Lucky him.”
Song for the drive back home=Aztec Camera. The words
your head is happy but your heart’s insane
make me nod. I know I’m doing the right thing, what I have to do, by being here, but I can’t shrug the feeling that I’m missing out on everything in London. Storrow Drive slings by me, the twinkling lights of Harvard in the distance. It’s hard to think about college and planning for four years that are more than a full twelve months away; who can know what I’ll feel then, or where I’ll be happy and find a new home?
I sing and drive and go past Slave to the Grind for a coffee that will aid me in my quest for staying up later than I have been. Inside, the place is hopping. Mable’s hired a bother-sister team to run the place while she’s unable to, and they seem to have the system down pat.
“Hey — you’re the singer, right?” the brother asks me. I nod. “Doug Martin. I know, two first names.” He smiles at me and gets his sister’s attention.
“Ula,” she says and shakes my hand. Unlike her brother she doesn’t offer an explanation of her rather interesting name.
“As in oh-la-la?” I ask and smile.
“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that before.” Ula rolls her eyes. “No, as in Swedish heritage.”
“Never mind my sister,” Doug says. “She burned herself on the frother — you know what that’s like.”
“I do, actually. It sucks” I take out some money, more as a gesture than anything else. “Can I have a medium mocha please?”
Doug nods. “So I guess we’ll see you on the Vineyard this summer?”
Ula actually takes my money and counts it. “We’d give you one for free but we told Mable we’d keep track of everything.” Ula’s mouth is one slim line, like those smiley faces that are supposed to show “in the middle”. “So we refuse freebies to everyone.”
“That’s fine,” I say even though it’s not and accept the mocha from Doug. “Are these new cups?” I look at the cardboard. It’s thinner than the other kind was. “They’re not as good — the heat’s coming right through.” I don’t mean to criticize, but heat seepage bugs the hell out of Mable and she doesn’t approve of doubling up on cups because of the tree waste.
“They’re cheaper,” Ula explains.
“Oh,” I say. It’s really not my business, I figure and Mable will be back soon and she can sort out the thick and the thin. “Thanks — I have to go. Have a good night.”
“Thanks for coming by,” Doug says.
“And see you in Edgartown,” Ula says. “I’ll be helping out there this summer, too.”
Oh, fab! Sign me up — sounds awesome. I do a small, not-too-fake smile. Note to self: complain to Mable about potential for evil twins (okay, so Ula and Doug are not twins, it sounds better) to corrupt café life. Not to mention seriously hinder my Vineyard vibe. But I give a quick wave and manage to get out “See you then!” before whisking myself back to the safety of my Saab. My Saab that Mable used to drive. My Saab that has already seen me through so many ups, downs, though as of yet no ins and outs. Heh. I press play on the CD again and sing along,
my mind has torn its track to you, my feet can’t wait to go
…but then my singing fades out while the song continues. With my hands on the steering wheel I approach the dusky campus and realize, until how the song finishes, my feet aren’t going anywhere. London is over. And I’m back here.
A few more days of giving into my organizational demons and I’ve outlined my bio film project that’s been approved by PMT and thusly conforms to the very high standards set by the Hadley Hall AC.
“I think it sounds really terrific,” Dad says as he crams a whole wheat bagel into his mouth. He got in late last night. I managed to resist the temptation to tuck myself in at nine-thirty and heard him pull up (his noisy muffler is a giveaway) much later — like at midnight when I opened one eye to glance at the clock. Of course I also took that time-spotting opportunity to do a quick conversion — if it’s midnight here, it’s five am in England. I pictured Arabella asleep with her hair spread out on her satin pillowcase, snoring if she’s had even one sip of beer, and I pictured Asher. Not that I really know exactly how he looks asleep — not having had the chance to make a deep study of his slumber. But enough to imagine him lying there, peacefully dreaming of me. I hope.
“I hope so,” I say and reach for a slice of cantaloupe.