The Story of You and Me (9 page)

We watched and I cheered the planes taking off well after the sun dipped below the horizon.

* * *

The Jeep’s engine hummed in neutral parked curbside in front of my apartment. Alejandro stood next to me on the sidewalk. “Sure you don’t want help taking that inside?”

“Nope.” I held a slightly greasy paper bag filled with leftovers. “Thanks for today. Do you want me to pay you now? Will a check be okay?” I juggled the bag while I dug through my purse trying to find my checkbook. I grabbed it and thrust it out toward him. Like it was a symbol of my definite ability and desire to pay. Like I was a serious customer. Not a user-type.

Alejandro shrugged his shoulders. “We’ll figure out our payment plan later.”

“When later?” I asked. “I don’t want to be that person who says I’m going to pay you and then for some reason I disappear or you disappear and there’s this unfinished debt that hangs between us.”
 

Like what my dad did to my mom. Courted her. Moved in with her. Knocked her up. Then left a couple of years after I was born because he couldn’t deal with his boring life. I would not be the person who didn’t keep my promises.

“That’s not going to happen,” he said. “I will camp on your doorstep and pelt you with cookies and guac chips until you pay me.”

I thought about the real reason I was in L.A. And the real reason I asked him to drive me.
 

“But, what if I don’t live here anymore?”

“Then I will hunt you down and find you,” he said. “I have class tomorrow and so do you. What time are we driving?”

“Tomorrow late afternoon? Three p.m.?”

“I will pick you up here. We are on for three.”

I liked that he said “we”.

“That works,” I said.

“Goodnight, Bonita.”

“Goodnight, Ralph.” I smiled and walked to my apartment’s door and put the right key in the lock.

“Wait! Who’s Ralph?”

I turned and regarded him. He looked confused. Gorgeous, delicious, but confused.
I was so good at messing with Alpha boys.
“Oh, gosh. I’m just an innocent Cheesehead.” I shrugged my shoulders, batted my eyes and pretended to swoon. “What do I know?”

“Apparently more than I gave you credit for,” he said.
 

“About time.” I opened the door to my place and stepped inside. “Thanks for—”

“What do I get when I figure it out?” He stared at me. “I mean—when I figure out the Ralph reference I should at least win a prize or something for my efforts.”

“You’re never going to figure it out.”

“Don’t underestimate me.”

“What kind of prize do you want?” I asked.

“I want to kiss you,” he said.

A shiver zipped up and down my spine. I thought about it for a moment. Realized he’d never find the right answer. He’d also lose all interest in me the more he drove me. He thought I was exotic. I knew I was boring. So my reply was easy.

“Yes, Alejandro,” I said. “Yes, you can kiss me if you figure it out.” I shut my door, leaned back against it and smiled.
 

Sophie: Two.
 

Alejandro: Zero.

But who was counting?

Chapter Eight

The next day was officially the beginning of summer school. I sat in a small, somewhat claustrophobic room on the third floor of Walden Hall with twenty kids close to my age. We listened to Professor Schillinger talk about the syllabus for Genetics 300 that we’d be studying this summer.
 

Schillinger was in his thirties and handsome in that studious, slouchy, starting to lose his hair kind of way. This worked for me and most likely the rest of the girls in class as well as some of the guys. But the absolute turn on? Not sexually—just in general—was that Professor Schillinger was not only brilliant, but seemed earnest and kind as he discussed genetic markers, new medical tests and studies that were already in progress or on the horizon for difficult medical conditions. We were even going to have our own DNA evaluated by Spectrum Labs as part of our course curriculum. I might not only earn college credit hours but also gain understanding about my MS.
 

After class I walked the winding concrete pathways of this huge tree lined campus. Unlike the rest of the neighborhood, USCLA had plenty of brick buildings and leafy non-fruit bearing trees. It almost felt like home. Pre-season football was starting. Who knew if I could even find it on cable in L.A? I missed my mom, Triple M, and it hit me how much I missed my other best friend.
 

She hated texting, was always busy and yes—there was a two-hour time difference between Pacific and Central Daylight time zones. I pulled my cell from my purse and hit a number. I expected it to go directly to voicemail. But miraculously she picked up.

“If you’re a charity, I’ve already given, if you’re a church, I’ve been saved, and if you’re that guy who just breathes heavy, I suspect I’ve seen what you’re doing before and frankly don’t care,” she said.

“Don’t hang up! Nana, it’s me!”

“Me, who?”

“Your favorite granddaughter!”

“I only have one granddaughter.”

“So that should help you figure out who’s calling.”
“Sophie, my darling! How is it going in Lost Angeles?”

“It’s going—interesting. It’s…well, I can’t wait to tell you all about it. I’ve just got a few minutes before a hospital thingie.” I kept on walking. “Is this a good time?”

“Hearing from you is never a bad time. But first, please bear with your poor addled grandmother.”

“You’re not addled.”

“You might think differently. I have a burning question that’s poking at my brain the way a small child does in the grocery store when they’re having a meltdown: screaming, crying and throwing things while their mother looks on aghast because she doesn’t know how to handle what she perceives as her own public humiliation. Because she has not learned to separate from her child and realize that this is her child’s doing and not hers.”

Nana was perceptive. She was also a little intuitive. I hoped she wasn’t going to ask about the stem cell study, or question the credit card bills for the healers I’d seen.

“Ask away.” I bit my lip.

“I’m sitting in front of the TV watching more tornado coverage on CNN. I’m confused. Anderson Cooper seems like such a smart young man. Why does he always go to areas that have fires, floods and tornadoes? Do you think he has an addiction to emergencies? I heard that some men have addictions to emergencies. His mother is an icon, you know. I worry this might upset her.”

Phew. Thank God she hadn’t figured it out yet.
“Nana. He’s
Anderson Cooper
. That’s part of his job, who he is, a significant indicator of his entire persona.”

“Oh, blech on the persona. How is your persona? Your mom told me you got in the middle of a bar fight your first night in L.A.” She coughed. “Hang on. I swallowed my throat lozenge.” She hacked and gurgled.

“You okay?”

“I refuse to die from a cherry flavored throat lozenge. Tell me your story.”

“Well—it’s been kind of strange and at the same time a little magical…”

* * *

We talked until I entered the building at the medical center that housed the stem cell study lab. “I’ll call you again soon. I love you!”

“Love you back, my favorite granddaughter,” she said and hung up.
 

I made my way back to the same waiting room at USCLA Medical Center. Today was an obligatory blood draw day. Three tubes needed to be sucked from my skinny rolling veins. I signed in at the front desk. Smiled at Receptionist Phil and his female counterpart. And took a seat in one of the uncomfortable chairs as I waited for my name to be called.
 

A pretty girl about my age sat in a wheelchair and picked through the magazines on a side table. She grabbed one and stared at the cover. ‘Jennifer Aniston’s Hair Secrets?’ Gag me.” She dropped it back on the table. Selected another rag and eyeballed the cover. “‘Is Gwyneth Paltrow the most hated woman in Hollywood?’ Do I really care?” She tossed that one too. Picked up a third. “‘Twenty bathing suits to fit any body shape’.” She pitched the magazine across the room. It smacked against the receptionist desk and slid to the floor. “Hey Phil!” she hollered.

“Yes, Blue. Your wish is my command. What is it this time?” he responded from behind his super duper state of the art command post.

“Got any magazines with swimsuit suggestions for girls in wheelchairs?” Blue ran her fingers through her blond hair streaked with blue.

“Anticipating that summer would soon be upon us, I’ve been researching that subject for several weeks now. I have not yet found that magazine article. In the mean time, I suggest you read about current celebrity couple breakups. I heard Miley Cyrus and what’s his name broke up. Again.”

“Dammit!” Blue threw another magazine against the waiting room wall. “I thought they would last. I thought they were young but meant to be together. That they were all about true love!”

“Stop throwing stuff,” Phil said calmly. “Or I’ll call hospital security and report that you’re scaring patients and defacing hospital property. And you’ll get in trouble. Again.”

“No one cares. These magazines are five months old,” she said.

“The waiting room was painted two months ago,” Phil replied.

“My shrink says it good to vent my anger.”

“Your shrink didn’t pay for the paint job.”

“Fine!” Blue wheeled up to Phil’s desk and pointed at him. “I’ve got my eye on you, buddy. One little mistake? One nap on the job? One time I catch you using hospital time to surf the Internet? I can report you as easily as you can report me.”

“Touché, cookie.” Phil smothered a smile.

She smiled back at him, turned her chair and wheeled back into the waiting area.

“Hey,” I said. “You’re amazing how you handle these robots. My name’s Sophie.”
 

Her eyes narrowed and she took a few moments to check me out. “Doesn’t look like cancer.”

“Huh?”

“Well, you’ve got all your body parts—on the outside, at least. Two arms, two legs. No huge, obvious crevices in the rest of your body. You’ve got naturally pale skin with some facial scabs obviously caused by something like a bar fight or a jealous girl attack. But you’re sporting splendiferous, shampoo commercial worthy hair. So if it is cancer? It’s early stages and you haven’t done chemo yet.”

Blue wanted to know about me. This almost made me feel like I had someone who quite possibly wanted to be my friend here at the USCLA Stem Cell Study Lab. Which quite possibly might be a miracle. “You’re right. I don’t have cancer.”

“Yes!” She held up her hand overhead to high five.

I leaned down and slapped her hand back.

“I called it,” she said. “Forty-two out of fifty right.” She pulled out a pen and a small notepad from a bag that was attached to her wheelchair. Flipped through the notepad. Until she found an empty page. “What’s your name?”
 

“Sophie Marie Priebe.”

She inscribed it in perfect cursive. “How old are you?”

“Nineteen,” I replied. “What are you doing?”

“I get to ask the questions first. Email, please? I promise not to spam you or sell your email to any other list that will spam you.”
 

I told her and she wrote it down. “Phone number and what state do you hail from? And I could care less about your emotional state. I mean like one of the fifty. Unless you’re from Guam or D.C. or Puerto Rico.”

“Wisconsin,” I said.

She inscribed it in her book. “So.” She stopped writing and squinted up at me. “Why are you here at USCLA Stem Cell Central? What lab study are you, their Cheesehead rat, enrolled in?”

“What’s up with everybody calling me a Cheesehead?”

“Blue,” Phil said, “you’re up. Room 304.”

“Got it.” She nodded at him then looked back at me. “Even better? Don’t tell me. Let me figure it out.” She turned her chair around and wheeled out of the waiting area down the long white sterile hallway.

“Thanks for asking,” I hollered after her.
 

But she didn’t hesitate or turn around. She just kept on wheeling.

* * *

And then it was my turn. I was back in a small hospital room. This time I didn’t have to strip naked, or wear a scratchy hospital gown, or bear my ass. The tech was female, middle-aged and a total pro at finding my skinny, deep, rolling veins. She only jabbed me once to collect three vials of blood.
 

“God bless you,” I said. “You’re good.

“I know.” She wiped the inside of my elbow with a swab of cotton swab drenched in alcohol. Grabbed a cotton ball. Peeled the plastic off a band-aid and secured it on top of my punctured arm. “See you in a couple of days.”

* * *

I walked across campus, picked my phone out of my purse and saw Mom had called. I hit re-dial but she didn’t pick up. I clicked on voicemail. But she hadn’t left a message. Not fair. I called her back and left her one. “Saw you called, Mom. Could you be a little less cryptic so I don’t freak out when you
don’t leave a message?
”
 

I paced outside the Student Union. “You know I worry. Just give me a heads up why you phoned. Like, ‘We miss you, Sophie. Hope all is well. Love you, Mom.’ Or— ‘There’s been a tragic accident in our home town, Sophie. Alien centipedes invaded Oconomowoc. I barely escaped with my life, but was captured and am now a house keeper in servitude to the Head Pede.’ And by the way? All is fine here in L.A. I think you would like it here. I think Nana would really love the Pacific Ocean. It’s freaking gorgeous. Call me back and tell me everything’s okay. I love you,” I said and hung up.

* * *

Alex sat in the driver’s seat of his Jeep and I was seat-belted in the front passenger seat as we drove through congested city traffic to my next appointment. This was becoming our norm.
 

Over the past ten days, he’d driven me to Hollywood where Dr. Susan Deffer, a middle-aged chiropractor, adjusted my spine with gadgets that sounded like power tools. He’d chauffeured me to Mrs. Sweet Tea, an aura healer in Compton and then to Stanislaus, a Phrenologist in Gardena who studied the bumps and grooves on my head.