Authors: Audrey Bell
A blare of sirens woke me.
New York sirens. Harlem sirens.
The kind of sirens you know not to
worry about. But it was the third time they’d woken me and I’d dropped out of
my bed and onto my knees, like I was expecting bullets to spray through the
window. It was only one in the morning.
I picked up my cell phone with
shaky hands and called David.
He might be awake, out in San
Francisco.
“Hey girlfriend! I’m so glad you’re
back in New York,” he trilled. “Now we can speak on the phone.”
“Hey, David,” I said. I swallowed.
“What’s wrong?” he asked.
“Nothing. Just. Can’t sleep.”
David had been more shaken than I
had been able to be over the chemical attacks. I didn’t know how to make it
make sense in my head and I’d stopped trying.
“Tell me something about San
Francisco,” I told him.
“It’s cloudy.”
I smiled.
“But I can see the Bay Bridge from
my window. I bet you remember that. I like the Bay Bridge. I think the Golden
Gate is overrated. I mean, it’s so out there. Red! And suspended. But the Bay
Bridge is blue. It doesn’t really want your attention. I’m really into that
quality in a bridge.”
I laughed.
“And it’s the one I can see from my
window, so it’s my favorite.”
I laughed again.
It was the fifth night in a row I’d
called him.
He told me about the homeless man
with the golden voice who hung out near his building and how he was going to
visit Justin in a few weeks and then, when he was sure I was good and calm, he
said. “Hey, Hadley, I was thinking maybe you should talk to someone about what
happened in Syria. If you can’t sleep. You know?”
I nodded. I didn’t want to see
anybody. I wanted to get tough and get on with it. I just needed a few more
days. “Yeah.” I smiled. “Yeah, if it keeps up, I will. I still think it’s
jetlag.”
“You’re not recovering from the
flight,” David told me.
“It was only three months.”
Dale had given me the week off, not
just given it to me, but demanded I take it.
“It doesn’t matter,” David said. “I
saw someone after what happened with Ben. It helped a lot. I think it might
help you, too.”
I nodded. “Yeah. I’ll think about
it.
My third day back at the office in New York, when I was
starting to think I would be okay, we had an unannounced fire drill.
I had a panic attack.
I thought maybe it was asthma, and
then I thought maybe I was having a heart attack, and knowing both were impossible,
I tried to keep quiet while everyone got up and left their desk. But I was
paralyzed. I couldn’t move. I stood, holding the edge of my desk, afraid I
would collapse.
Dale recognized it when he walked
past my desk. “Hadley, let’s go,” he shouted. And then he took a closer look at
me. “Jesus, you’re shaking. Are you okay?”
“Yes,” I managed.
“Do you have asthma?”
I shook my head.
"You sick?"
I shook my head vehemently.
“I think you’re having a panic
attack,” he said. “Hold your breath for a few seconds then let it go. And sit
down. My wife says that helps.”
When I finally got my breathing
under control, I wished he'd left me. I wished it were an actual fire and I was
dying of smoke inhalation. I was mortified.
“You two didn’t hear the drill?”
the fire marshal demanded, walking down the hallway to check if we were all
clear.
“Give us a pass. Kid doesn’t like
sirens, okay?” Dale shot back.
The marshal looked from Dale to me
and back to Dale. He nodded. “All clear," he shouted out, to whomever was
listening before he disappeared from sight.
Dale leaned over my desk and picked
up a notepad. He scrawled a name onto it.
“Sorry,” I said, my face burning.
He shook his head. “Don’t be.”
I shook from the adrenaline. He
handed me a piece of paper. Dr. Jane Ferguson. “Make an appointment. She can
help. You need help with that. Alright? You can’t handle it on your own. You
don’t need to tell me about it if you don’t want to. But you need to call her.”
I nodded. “Yeah, I will.”
“Look, I’m going to give you another
week off. See the doctor, see what she says, and write a fun story. Write about
the fucking fall foliage in New England or some shit. Go to a dog park.” He
smiled.
I nodded.
“Take off. Don’t worry,” he said.
I nodded again, packing up my
stuff. Humiliated as hell. I had to get a grip.
Dr. Ferguson didn’t ask me that many questions. I told her I
was having panic attacks since Syria, I thought it was temporary, and I didn’t
want to talk about it too much. She told me to take a Xanax when I felt one
coming on and to come back in two weeks.
I wrote a story about dog parks.
And I went for a few long walks.
And when the phone rang incessantly
at work and the edge of terror crept in, I took a Xanax.
It helped at first.
And then it stopped helping.
I went back to Dr. Ferguson. She upped my dosage and said I
should try talk therapy. I said I'd stick to the pills.
Dale called one afternoon when I
was trying to figure out how to get my hands to stop shaking.
"I just wanted to see how you
were doing."
"I'm great," I said
tightly.
"Yeah? That's good."
I swallowed. "I should be able
to come into the office soon."
He was quiet. "Don't rush it.
I liked the story on dog parks. You could do a whole series.”
I smiled and swallowed, staring at
the bleak walls of my apartment. I should decorate. I should decorate, put down
roots, and reach out to the people I knew here. I should go back to work.
I heard a siren in the distance.
"Look, if it makes you feel
any better, Chip's still on leave. You guys saw some horrible shit,” he said.
“Nobody thinks any less of you for needing time to get over it.”
The siren got louder.
It's just
a noise.
I took a breath and let it go,
thinking about the subway and the East River. I knew I was supposed to ground
myself in the present, that a panic attack was misinterpreting something that
was harmless as danger, that it was fear in the absence of danger.
I'm not in danger, I reminded
myself.
The sirens were coming up my block
now.
"I have to go," I told
Dale. “Thanks for calling.”
I dropped the phone and scrambled
to the bathroom for my Xanax.
I was fine, either by the time the
medication kicked in or by the time the sirens faded.
I wanted Jack, I realized.
I wanted Jack. He was the only
person who ever seemed to get me, to get all of me, and he was the only person
who I believed might get this, too.
When I caught my breath, I scrolled
to his number and to the picture I’d taken of him one morning when we were
still together. It was a goofy shot of him sitting in his boxers on the corner
of his bed with his hair standing up in sheer defiance of the laws of gravity.
I pressed my thumb as lightly as I
could against his image. I called him.
I didn't lift the phone to my ear.
I didn't put it on speaker. I heard the faint ringing buzz from my hand.
I wanted it to go to voicemail and
I wanted him to have the same message he had in college.
Hey, it's Jack. Leave a message
and I'll call you back.
It wasn't funny or original at all.
It was just the way he said it, like he didn't care who was calling. I could
imagine him leaning back on a couch, easy and relaxed.
I swallowed, tears blurring before
my eyes. I finally put the phone to my ear.
I didn't get his voice, though. "You've
reached the voice mailbox of Jack Diamond," a computer informed.
"Please leave a message at the tone."
I swallowed hard on a thick lump in
my throat. I turned the phone off before the tone. I couldn't even breathe
normally.
Get a grip, Hadley
.
But I didn't even know what that
meant anymore.
I was going to work tomorrow, I
told myself. I wasn't getting any better staying inside. I needed to go out
there. I needed to face it.
The phone rang around 11.
"Hello?" I said, pulling
myself up, rubbing my eyes, glancing at the clock.
For a fleeting moment I was
transported back to Syria, to the early morning wake-up calls, the sudden
arrival of danger.
I switched on a light and got to my
feet.
"Hadley?"
I swallowed.
"It's Jack."
I walked to the window, and pressed
my hand and my forehead to the cold glass and closed my eyes. His voice was
like water. It was like water when you've been thirsty.
"I saw you called." I
heard a grin behind the familiar rumble of his voice. "Well, I'm almost
sure it was you. I deleted your number, but you had the three threes.
So..."
"Yeah," I said.
"Yeah, it was me." I kept my eyes closed. It had only been a few
months ago when Jack felt dangerous.
And a few months of real danger had
changed all of that.
"You okay? Did I wake you
up?"
"Yeah, I'm good." I
opened my eyes.
I'm good. I'm good
.
I'm fine.
How long had I been
telling people that?
"I read all your
stories," he ventured. "Sorry. That's weird. It sounds like I'm
stalking you. Are you back in New York for now?"
"Yeah, yeah. I'm in New York.
Are you still at your Mom’s?"
"No, actually. I'm in
Brooklyn."
"Brooklyn." Brooklyn was
close.
"Yeah. I'm teaching at a
charter school."
"Wow."
"Well, I'm teaching art. I'd
save the wow if I were you."
I smiled, stupidly sad that he was
so much the same. I turned from the window, feeling the early fall chill on my
neck. "I bet the kids like you."
He laughed. "They do,
actually. Which I find disturbing."
"Yeah?" I looked down at
my socks and rubbed one against the other. "Why? I think that makes
sense."
"It does make sense. They’re
like, here is a man who seems incapable of tying his own shoes and whose
favorite subject doesn’t count. I identify with this person.”
I couldn't do anything but laugh at
that.
"So, how are you?" he
asked, when the line had gone quiet. "Was there a reason you called?"
I smiled. "No, no. Just,
misdialed."
"Ah. Gotcha," he said,
knowingly. "Well, sorry to wake you up then. I'll let you go.”
"Wait," I said.
"Wait, I didn't misdial."
"Okay."
I took a breath. "I miss
talking to you." I closed my eyes, surprised at the stillness of the
world. "Syria...." I didn't know what to say about Syria. Maybe there
was nothing to say. Maybe there never would be anything to say. "Would you
come—would you
want
to come over?" I asked. I bit my lip.
"Now?" he asked.
"Oh...no, no. I mean, just
maybe sometime," I said backpedaling.
"I can come over now," he
said, calmly. "If you want."
I nodded and swallowed. "I’d
really like that.”
"Give me half an hour,
okay?"
I nodded. "Yeah. Okay."
About half an hour later, I realized I was still in
sweatpants in a t-shirt with my hair in a mangled half-bun on top of my head.
I pulled off the stained,
neon-green t-shirt.
Where the hell had I ever gotten that?
I put on a
bra, and a normal-looking white sweater. And I brushed my hair back and braided
it.
The buzzer downstairs announced
Jack's arrival. I pressed my thumb over the black button. I could hear his
footsteps on the last flight of stairs. They were steady. My heart beat twice
for every one of his steps.
The doorbell rang. I smiled for
practice and then I walked to the door and opened it.
He looked good, his hair was a bit
shorter, he was clean shaven, and he was wearing a soft white Henley instead of
plaid. Maybe he'd changed a little, too.
I smiled. "Hey, you look
great!"
He laughed and then he hugged me.
It wasn't a normal kind of hug. He held me tightly.
"I'm really, really glad you
called," he said. He walked into my apartment, closing the door behind him.
"Are you back for good? How was it? I read your articles and they were
great." He paused. "I mean, they were scary. I hated thinking of you
there. But they were great."
"Oh." I nodded. "Um,
thanks. Yeah, we're back for good. A stringer for a French paper died
and..." I shrugged. "After the chemical attacks…It was getting pretty
volatile when we left."
He nodded. "That's good. I
mean, that you're back for good."
I met his eyes, which looked as
clear as they ever had. He had been right to worry. I had been stupid not to. I
looked away.
"Listen, I was thinking…a lot.
About giving you an ultimatum. That was shitty."
"Oh," I said. I shrugged.
"No. Not at all. It was..." I searched for words. I came up with
nothing. Again. "Do you want to sit down?"
He sat on the couch.
"Do you want wine or
anything?"
"Yeah, sure," he said. He
smiled. I walked to the kitchen. I heard sirens, distantly enough that they
didn't surprise me. Still I frowned as they grew louder and then began to fade
again. My hands shook slightly as I poured two glasses. Shook even while I
handed him one, and his fingers lightly brushed mine.
"So, how's work?" he
asked, taking one. He smiled.
I shrugged. "I, um...actually
I’m kind of on leave." I paused, sitting down on the couch. I glanced away
from him. "I didn't deal with things so well when I came back."
He didn't say anything for a
moment. "Jesus. I'm sorry. Do you want to talk about it?"
I shrugged. "I don't know what
to say." I smiled bitterly. "It sucked. You were right. I never
should have gone."
I took a sip of my wine, and then
another, focusing on the cold liquid. I swallowed and exhaled.
"I never said that," he
said quietly. "It was never about you being wrong. It was about me wanting
you to stay."
"Well, I should've
stayed," I said. I took another sip of my wine.
"Why are you on
leave...exactly?" he asked delicately.
I shrugged.
"Sorry. You don't have to tell
me if you don't want to."
"I had a panic attack." I
tried to say this nonchalantly. "Or something. During a fire drill. The
managing editor told me to take some time off."
Jack was quiet. "Are you
seeing a doctor or anything?"
I shrugged. "Yeah. She gave me
Xanax. It helps. Sometimes." I sighed. I looked at him again. "Sorry.
I bet you're regretting calling me back, huh?"
He shook his head. "No. Not at
all.”
I nodded. “Oh.”
"So what happened?" he
asked.
"The fire alarm just went off
and I freaked out," I ran a hand through my hair.
"In Syria, I mean."
I turned my head and looked out the
window. I hadn't talked about Syria with anyone, not really. "There were
chemical attacks."
"To you, though. What happened
to you in Syria?"
"I don't know." I closed
my eyes. I shook my head. "I saw a little girl die." I looked at him.
"She was young, maybe six. And then, the bodies outside of the Mosque
after the chemical attacks." I lifted my shoulders helplessly, trying to
recall the particularly brand of desperation that had closed in. My throat
tightened up, warning me not to say any more. I tried to clear it and, finding
that impossible, gave him a fake smile and took a breath. I started to cry
silently. I brushed the tears away from my face roughly and took a breath.
“Hey, hey,” he said comfortingly.
He put an arm around me, which made it worse. “It’s okay.”
I took a few deep breaths. “Sorry.
I probably shouldn’t talk about it. How have you been?"
He smiled. "I have been
okay." He nodded. "I think about you a lot. I, um, wanted to tell you
how much I regretted giving you an ultimatum.”
"It's okay."
He shook his head. "No, it's
not really. I fucked everything up."
"I fucked everything up,"
I told him.
He rubbed his chin. "I don’t
know. We’re both responsible. Well, listen. I know that you can't be with me
like I wanted—like I thought I needed."
I was quiet. I wanted to say that
maybe I could.
"But it seems like you could
use a friend right now."
"Yeah," I said. I
exhaled. "Yeah, probably. I could use, you know, a team of psychiatrists,
too."
He smiled a bit sadly. "So,
you know. Maybe I could be that for you."
I met his eyes. "I don't know
if you want to be my friend."
"I do." He looked at me. "No
benefits," he said, with a grin. "I think that was the problem. But,
we could be friends. That could work for me, I think. I mean, I think I would
like that."
I sipped my wine and decided to
tell him the truth.
"Would you say
something?" he asked. He laughed.
"No," I said.
"What?"
"No, I don't want to be
friends with you," I said. I said it automatically, and more fiercely and
surely than I had said anything in a long time. "I don't want to be your
friend."
He raised his eyebrows and shook
his head. "Okay. Fine.”
"I don't want to be
friends," I repeated.
"Yeah. I got it."
I sipped my wine again, for
courage. "Do you remember when you told me you loved me?"
He cringed. "Jesus, Hadley."
"Do you?"
"We really have to revisit
this?" he demanded.
I stared at him.
He exhaled. "Yeah, I remember,
Hadley." He rubbed his chin. "Obviously, I remember. And if you don't
want to be friends, then I don't want to talk about it." He got to his
feet and pulled on his coat. "You know, if you change your mind. Give me a
call. I won't tell you I love you. And, for what it's worth, I'm sorry."
He moved towards the door.
“Jack, just listen. I didn't know
what to say. But, I do now. I should have said that I loved you." I looked
at him, just a stolen glance. He looked stricken, more than anything. "In
Syria, I was out with our photographer one night, and our jeep was stolen. And
Chip told me—”
"I'm really not a fan of
Chip," Jack said.
"What?" I said.
"Never mind," he smiled
wryly.
"How do you even know
Chip?"
"I don't. I just saw you
shared a byline and then I followed him on Twitter and then...never mind."
I looked at him warily.
"You were saying something
about a Jeep."
I took a breath. "Chip told me
that I should tell his parents how much he loved them if anything happened. And
I realized that if anything happened to me, I wanted you to know that I had
loved you." I bit my lip. "I mean, I didn't even know that, I don't
think. I loved you but I told myself I didn't. And I believed that I didn’t.
Until I thought about, if I die right now, he wouldn't know that I loved him
and I do. I never let it show. But I loved you." My voice wavered.
"Sometimes -most of the time, actually, I still think I do." I snuck
another look at him. "I don’t want to be your friend, because I’m in love
with you.” I bit my lip. “I know, you're probably completely over it, but I
thought you should know.”
"I'm not over it," he
said automatically.
I was quiet.
"I meant it. I love you. I
still love you and not just most of the time. All of the time," he said.
He looked so serious, it was hard to believe we'd just admitted it to one
another.
"Okay," I said.
"Okay," he said.
He smiled first. "So maybe we
should pick up back where we started? Same rules?"
I shook my head. "I was
thinking....I would really, really like to have dinner with you."
Jack threw his head back and laughed,
a happy laugh, a sound of relief. I got up to my feet and for some reason, when
I blinked, I was crying. He walked towards me, grabbed me by my wrists and
pulled me close.
"No way," he whispered,
teasingly.
"Shut up."
He kissed me softly.
“So, dinner?” I said, trying to
keep my voice from wavering.
He smiled. He kissed me again,
briefly, barely at all. “I don’t know,” he teased. “What about your rules?”
"C'mon."
He smiled and kissed me for a third
time.
I pulled my mouth away. “Yes or
no?"
"Ask me out again?"
"Don't push your luck," I
said.
"I might have to think about
it," he said, laughing.
"Have dinner with me," I
said.
“Yes,” he said. “I should leave you
hanging longer, but, yes, I will have dinner with you.” He kissed me again,
pressing me against the wall. “Anywhere, anytime, you can take me to
dinner."
I smiled and grabbed his wrists.
“Good.”
He nodded. He kissed my forehead,
his lips shaking ever so slightly. “Good.”
I closed my eyes again and he
braced himself against the wall with his hands and kissed me again.
His mouth was warm and we'd left
the lights on and he turned me, walking me backwards towards the couch. He bit
my lip and I broke the kiss and caught my breath.
"Maybe we could start with
breakfast, though," he said. "You free tomorrow?"
"I could move some things
around," I said.
"Oh, yeah?"
I nodded. "Yeah."