Other Words for Love (27 page)

I shook my head. “I can’t do that. I don’t want anybody to know.”

The doctor nodded and reached into her desk. Then she handed me a business card with the name of the clinic’s psychiatrist, and she said that I should make an appointment, but I didn’t want to. I couldn’t lie on a couch or sit in a chair and talk about Blake for hours. In my opinion, it was better not to talk about him at all.

Adam wanted me to draw all the same old things, but I didn’t mind. My pictures made him smile a big smile that broke out two deep dimples, which made me happy and sad at the same time. I was happy that I could give him a little joy, and sad because he was even better-looking than last year. He was growing into a handsome man with a brain that would never keep up.

“You’re a good artist, Snow White,” he said at the beginning of July.

I smiled weakly. “I’m not an artist, Adam.”

“Sure you are,” he said, lifting one of my drawings by its edge as proof.

Maybe his brain wasn’t all that damaged. Maybe he knew more than I did. And his was the first face that had interested me in a very long time. So that night, I went into my studio and sat down at my easel. My pencils were dusty and my paper was discolored from being left alone by the window for so long, but it didn’t matter. I still knew how to draw. Maybe I actually was an artist, because before I knew it, Adam’s face was staring back at me from my sketch pad.

“Oh,” Mom gasped from the doorway. “You’re drawing again.”

I couldn’t match her excitement. I still didn’t have the strength. I just nodded and she backed off, saying she had some silverware to polish, and I heard her walking away.

“Mom,” I said.

She poked her head into the room. “Yes, Ariadne?”

“Don’t polish the silverware. Work on your novel.”

She rolled her eyes. “For what? I’ll never finish. I’m not a real writer.”

“Sure you are,” I said, the same way Adam said it to me, and just as sincerely. If I could be interested in drawing again, then anything was possible.

We went to Queens a few days later for the Fourth of July. Dad drove Mom’s Honda and I sat in the back, my hair blowing into knots because all the windows were open.

“You really should get the air conditioner fixed,” I called toward the front seat.

“We will,” Mom said. “We’ll fix it when you start driving.”

What was she talking about? I had only driven once, in February, when Patrick gave me my first lesson. Then Mom said that Patrick had offered to give me more lessons and to take me to the DMV to get my license, and soon she was going to buy a new car and I could have this one and wouldn’t I like that?

“Yeah,” I said. “I won’t have to walk everywhere.”

“And it’ll come in handy later on … when you start college.”

Dad’s head snapped toward Mom. “Nancy,” he said in a chastising tone, as if I was hobbling on crutches and she was pressuring me to run.

That shut her up. I looked at Dad’s gray hair, saw his fingers on the steering wheel, the wedding ring he never took off. My hand was at my side and it moved toward him, toward his shoulder, which I wanted to squeeze. But I didn’t because we didn’t touch each other much, and if we did, it wasn’t in a mushy way. I just held the back of his seat instead, hoping he could feel me through the leather.

At Patrick and Evelyn’s house, we joined a backyard crammed with off-duty firefighters, Queens housewives, and kids who played catch on the grass. Patrick spent the day slaving over his barbecue, so I didn’t talk to him until the crowd thinned out. The sun had just started to set when he plopped down next to me on the Sears sofa and I felt something hit my ankle. Then Kieran chased a ball as it rolled across the patio, grabbed it, and held it up to my face.

“Remember this?” he asked. I did—it was the Red Sox baseball from Blake. “Your boyfriend gave it to me. Where is he?”

Kieran was too young for tact. I squirmed in my seat and Patrick rescued me.

“Don’t ask nosy questions,” he said. “And put that damn thing away before I make sure you never see it again.”

Kieran was used to his father’s tough talk. He skipped into the house and I felt a headache brewing. I rubbed my temples and Patrick stood up, reached into his pocket, and tossed his key ring onto my lap.

“I don’t feel like driving right now,” I said.

“Did I ask how you feel? You’ll be nineteen in six months and you still don’t have your license. That’s wicked lame.”

Wicked lame
. I laughed a little and I swallowed two Tylenol in the bathroom before Patrick and I hit the road in his truck, where I had my second driving lesson. There were more lessons after that, through the rest of July and into August, and one day toward the end of summer he said I was ready for the DMV.

I wasn’t sure how ready I was, but I gave it a shot and ended up with a New York State driver’s license. I passed the test on my first try, and it gave me a familiar feeling, the feeling of pride I used to get from the letter A written on exams at school. I hadn’t felt that way for months, and I hadn’t realized how much I missed it.

The next time I felt like that was during my last day at Creative Colors. Adam was upset because I was leaving, so I gave him his portrait and it cheered him up. Julian looked at my drawing over Adam’s shoulder and I felt very small, worrying that Julian might be one of those critical people who had haunted my imagination for years. But I was wrong.

“This is really good, Ari,” he told me.

“It is?” I said.

He chuckled and gave me an invitation to his wedding, which was going to be in October on one of those rented yachts that sailed around New York Harbor.

Later that night, I was drawing in my studio when I decided to take the SAT again. Maybe I could do well enough to get into Parsons this time. But if not, there were other schools in Manhattan, and now I had the sense to fill out more than one application.

My decision made Mom very happy. After I told her, she made a squealing noise and spent hours scribbling in her perky pink notebook. And that made
me
very happy.

The next morning I cornered Dad while he was eating breakfast and Mom was taking a shower. I reminded him that Mom was working on her novel and that she’d finished six chapters already, and she couldn’t possibly write the whole thing with a ballpoint pen.

“Let’s buy her a typewriter,” I said. “An electric one. You can leave work early today and we can go shopping together.”

What was I thinking? Dad never left work early. But he agreed that the typewriter was a good idea and took some money out of his wallet, and I bought a Smith Corona that afternoon. Mom was thrilled and I acted like it was Dad’s idea. Then she kissed him and typed until midnight.

Mom gave me her car the night before Labor Day, after she and Dad went to a dealership in the Bronx to pick up a brand-new Honda. It was a color called Desert Mist. Dad had finagled a good price because the salesman was his partner’s wife’s ex-husband or something.

The next day we took it to Patrick and Evelyn’s house, where Evelyn told me and Mom that she’d signed up for a secretarial course at Queensborough Community College.

“It’s only for a semester,” she said. “To learn office skills and all that crap. I may try to get a job when Shane starts nursery school. Patrick thinks it’s a good idea.”

So did I. And so did Mom, who looked as if Evelyn had been granted a full scholarship to Yale. “That’s fantastic, Evelyn,” I said.

“But here’s the thing,” she began, and that worried me even though there was no need to worry. She just said that her classes were on Mondays and Wednesdays and she needed a babysitter and I wouldn’t mind taking care of the kids, would I?

“Well, I have nothing else to do,” I said with an unexpected laugh, and it didn’t sound so tragic.

twenty-four

It
was mid-September, the time of year when fall edges up on summer and the air smells of lighter fluid because everyone wants to use their barbecues before they can’t anymore. Dad was busy figuring out who raped and murdered a girl in Battery Park, Mom was intimidating a brand-new pack of sixth graders, and Evelyn was learning how to type.

I was proud of Evelyn. Early on Mondays and Wednesdays I drove the Honda to Queens, where I found her waiting at the front door clutching textbooks to her chest. Then she sped off in her minivan, and I drove Kieran to second grade and spent the rest of the day taking care of Shane and studying for the SAT.

On one of those Wednesday mornings I filled out my second Parsons application, and my first for three other colleges in the city. Later I strapped Shane into his car seat and stopped at the post office to mail the four envelopes before I picked up Kieran at school.

That night, I drove home to Brooklyn and found the house empty. Dad was working, Mom was at a faculty meeting, and the red light on our answering machine was blinking. I pressed it and heard the raspy voice of a girl saying I should give her a call at the Waldorf. Room 163.

It was a warm night but I felt a nervous chill. I didn’t want to think about the Waldorf or Leigh or anyone connected to her. I was afraid that if I did, it would pull me into the deep dark hole that had been so hard to escape.

“I could go for some ice cream,” Mom said after dinner.

She and I were sitting at the kitchen table. She licked her lips and suggested a Carvel Flying Saucer or a pint of Jamoca Almond Fudge from Baskin Robbins, but I didn’t want ice cream and I came up with excuses because I couldn’t tell Mom the truth. I couldn’t tell her that Leigh’s voice had rattled my shaky foundation and now I couldn’t stop thinking that it was much easier to recover from mono than from Blake Ellis.

“Come on,” Mom said. “Food is one of life’s simple pleasures.”

Maybe she was right. Maybe something as simple as Jamoca Almond Fudge would help. So I smiled and stood up from the table. Then the phone rang and it was Evelyn, who wanted Mom to know that Kieran had won the second-grade spelling bee and that Evelyn had earned a B+ on a typing test, and I didn’t want Mom to have to cut the conversation short.

“I’ll run over to Baskin Robbins,” I whispered. “I’ll be back soon.”

She nodded and I went outside. The warm air had been chased away by a cool breeze that rustled the trees, and there was a bunch of grade-school girls with braids and ponytails riding their bicycles in circles on the street. Our neighbor was standing on her driveway, talking to another woman with curlers in her hair who kept shading her eyes from the sun. They both waved as I drove past and headed to Baskin Robbins, where I bought a gallon instead of a pint.

I left my windows open as I drove home, enjoying the crisp air and the sound of kids laughing on street corners. I was almost there when a bicycle cut in front of me. I slammed on my brakes and heard my tires screech, and then nobody was laughing.

I’d never been in a hospital before. Of course I’d been
to
a hospital, but I’d never been
in
a hospital, where I was the patient and doctors asked me questions like
What’s your full name
? and
Who’s the president of the United States? Ariadne Mitchell
and
Ronald Reagan
—that was how I answered—and everybody seemed impressed even though the questions were so silly. For a minute I wondered if I’d finally gone nuts and I was in New York–Presbyterian, but it didn’t seem that way because I wasn’t tied up in a straitjacket. This was just a normal room with a television and a bed and a powerful smell of Lysol. I was in the bed, there were sheets pulled to my waist, and I was hooked up to a machine that measured my heart rate and never stopped beeping. I was also wearing a gown that I didn’t remember putting on.

“Where are my clothes?” I asked Mom, who was standing next to me.

“They took them off,” she said. “You were unconscious.”

The fact that some random strangers had removed my clothes was more disturbing than finding out I’d been unconscious. I tried to remember which bra I’d worn today. I hoped that it was decent, that it didn’t have ripped elastic or holes, but I couldn’t remember anything and my head was killing me. Mom kept talking, saying I hit the brakes so hard to avoid the girl on her bike that I had slammed my forehead against the steering wheel.

“Is she okay?” I asked.

“She’s fine,” Mom said. “A moron, but fine. Who the hell rides a bike in the middle of the damn street?”

Then I found out that I wasn’t exactly fine, that I had a big bump and a purplish gray bruise growing and darkening across my forehead, and that I might have a concussion, but the doctor wasn’t sure so I had to stay in the hospital overnight for observation.

I didn’t think I had a concussion and neither did a matronly nurse who checked on me after Mom left. And I was starting to feel better. My head didn’t hurt all that much by the time the ten o’clock news started, and I was settling into my pillows to watch a story about that dead girl in Battery Park when I heard the door open.

I thought it would be the nurse. But when I turned my head, I saw long red hair and eyes with gold flecks.

“Wow, you got banged up good,” Leigh said.

I was nervous again. The feeling lingered while I listened to her talk. She said she hadn’t been sure I’d gotten her message, so she’d stopped by my house but nobody was home, and my next-door neighbor had told her I’d been in a car accident and she could find me at Kings County Hospital. I wished my neighbor had kept her mouth shut, because now Leigh was sitting on the empty bed beside mine. She was smiling and telling me about UCLA, and I couldn’t smile or answer. Her arrowhead charm swung from her neck and it brought back memories that kept me very quiet.

I felt guilty, too. I hadn’t contacted her after Valentine’s Day. I blamed her for having introduced me to Blake and Del when she was completely blameless, and yet here she was, acting like I didn’t deserve the Worst Friend of All Time award. But maybe she was taking pity on me because she knew what it was like to lose someone you love.

“Uncle Stan had a triple-bypass operation,” she said. “He’s not doing so well.”

Good, I thought. I haven’t been doing so well either because of him. “Oh,” I said, and nothing else, even though Leigh seemed to be waiting for something else, something considerate or encouraging. But I just couldn’t give it to her.

She twirled her hair around a finger. “I’m glad you’re okay. Accidents like this can turn into something much worse, as I know all too well.”

She meant M.G. I wanted to ask if she still thought about him, if she still missed him, and how long it took to be completely over someone, but I couldn’t do that either. “I’m glad I’m okay too,” I told her instead.

She nodded. “Listen, Ari … Blake is out in the car.”

My heart skipped a beat. I wondered if it registered on that machine. “Why?” I asked.

“I told him you were in an accident and he wanted to see if you were all right.” She touched her charm, and I couldn’t take my eyes off it. “I’m not sure if that’s all … but he wants to see you. Do you want to see him?”

Why couldn’t she ask me one of those easy questions like
Who’s the president of the United States
? That had been a cinch to answer. This one was so confusing. Part of me wanted to see Blake more than anyone in the world, and the other part didn’t want to see him ever again because he had betrayed me and I had betrayed him and he would never betray his father, especially if his father was sick. So there wasn’t any point.

“No,” I said. That word wasn’t easy to say, but I thought it was the best word.

“Are you sure?” Leigh asked.

“No,” I said again.

She stood up from the bed. “I understand. Well … I’m sure you’re tired. I’ll get out of here and let you relax. Take care of yourself, okay?”

She headed for the door and I reached out and clutched her hand to stop her. I held it in mine for a moment, regretting that I’d never been the friend she deserved. She seemed to understand that, too.

“Take care, Leigh,” I said.

She smiled. “Get better, Ari.”

Leigh left without promising to call me the next time she was in New York. I think we both knew that I had to make a clean break from the Ellis family if I was ever going to forget about them.

A few minutes later, the nurse came in and asked me how I was feeling. When I tried to talk, my voice broke and a tear rolled down my cheek.

“What’s wrong?” she said.

I wiped my face. “Someone came to see me but I decided not to see him.”

She nodded. “We have mental health counselors here. Do you think you’d like to talk to someone?”

I wasn’t even sure why I was talking to her. I didn’t talk about Blake with anyone, although I was starting to think that keeping everything to myself wasn’t such a bright idea.
Don’t bottle up your emotions
—that was what the doctor who diagnosed my migraines had advised a long time ago. I really should have listened.

“Not tonight,” I said. “But I’ll be ready soon.”

I didn’t have a concussion and I didn’t talk to a counselor at the hospital. Instead I made an appointment with a psychiatrist at the clinic. I went there the next Friday afternoon with a bruise on my forehead and spoke with a forty-something woman named Dr. Pavelka. She wore cat’s-eye glasses and lipstick the color of Pepto-Bismol. She had a soothing Slavic accent and a comfortable couch in an office with plants on the windowsill. I liked her immediately. I liked her enough to tell her things I’d never told anyone else, such as how I had kept my curtains closed to block out the sight of Saint Anne’s face and spring grass poking through slushy snow.

She bit the tip of her pencil as she sat in an oversized chair. “Since when do you feel this way?” she asked.

“Since …,” I said, searching the stucco ceiling for an answer. Then I looked back at her, at the strawberry blond hair that was piled on top of her head and secured with two chopsticks. “Since after kindergarten. I felt really good in kindergarten.”

“I see. And this statue—this saint—you think it talks to you?”

“Oh, no,” I said quickly, wondering if she thought I was schizophrenic and I heard voices coming from plaster. “No, it just …”

I stopped because I didn’t know which words to choose. I needed some that wouldn’t make me sound certifiably insane. Dr. Pavelka kept biting her pencil, and I waited for men in white uniforms to swoop in and take me away.

“Is hard to explain,” she said. “It may take a while to figure out. Right?”

“Right,” I said, thrilled that she didn’t think I was a blathering lunatic.

She stuck the pencil behind her ear and crossed her legs. “Your migraines, Ari … there’s no physical cause? Your physician said that they’re brought on by stress?”

I relaxed into the cushions on her couch. “Stress,” I agreed. “Loud noises, being upset … and keeping everything to myself.”

Dr. Pavelka uncrossed her legs. “Come back next Friday,” she said. “I get feeling you should’ve come here long time ago. We have lots to talk about, no?”

I went back the next Friday. She didn’t admit me to a psych ward or give me medication. All we did was talk, and we did have lots to talk about. We discussed Blake and my parents and Evelyn, and Dr. Pavelka wasn’t shocked about anything. She acted as if feeling depressed was no different from having mono. And she wasn’t the least bit disgusted when I told her about Del and that I used to have a crush on my own brother-in-law.

“Isn’t that strange?” I asked. “I mean … the way I felt about Patrick?”

“Is normal,” she said.

She made me feel normal. I saw her the next Friday afternoon, and the one after that, and soon the leaves on the trees outside her office window turned from green to brown.

“I still think about Blake,” I told her on a crisp day in October.

“How much?” she asked. “On scale of one to ten.”

I shrugged. “Maybe a six.”

“Of course,” she said. “He was first boyfriend. First love. Not easy to forget so quick. But you have to remember, Ari … you have future ahead. Yesterday is gone.”

She stood up because our session was over. I stayed where I was, thinking that yesterday was gone and I couldn’t get it back and that was really sad. But then I thought that going back to yesterday might feel like visiting elementary school, where the desks were small and you couldn’t believe that you had ever fit in them, and you knew you didn’t belong there anymore.

I walked home afterward, my mind on Julian’s wedding and the fact that I had nothing to wear. That night, while Mom tapped away at her typewriter in the kitchen, I stood in my bedroom riffling through my clothes and trying to find something appropriate for a wedding cruise around Manhattan. I came across a black dress, the one I’d worn to Mr. Ellis’s Christmas party, the one that had ended up on the floor after Blake’s twenty-first birthday. I took it out, touched it and stared at it, and then Mom was beside me.

“I’ll buy you a new dress,” she said, gently detaching it from my hands. “Something that’s in fashion.”

That dress was still in fashion. A little black dress is always in fashion. But Mom didn’t know any better, so I didn’t correct her. Besides, I thought she might actually have a point. That dress was very yesterday.

We went to Loehmann’s the next morning and bought a purple skirt set that matched the bruise that still wasn’t completely gone from my forehead. It was small now, just a few speckles above my left eyebrow, but Julian noticed. He saw it after the ceremony, when he was officially married and I was standing alone, leaning on the yacht’s railing and staring over the water at the skyline.

“Did you get mugged or what?” he said.

I laughed and told him about the accident. It was a beautiful autumn night with a clear sky and a cool breeze, and Julian wanted to know what I’d been up to since the summer. I said that I hadn’t really been up to anything except planning to start college next year, and he asked where I wanted to go.