Loud Awake and Lost, page 18
Then we wandered Surf Avenue, stopping for a corn dog at Nathan’s for me and a hot dog with everything for Kai.
He let me try his first—“Gorilla-style! With peppers and onion, the best!”—and then he finished it in the next three bites. “Watch out, true believers. I’m going for another one. Best hot dog in New York.”
“Only because it belongs to this day.” Though the walking, the delirious excitement was catching up with me. My reserves were beginning to ebb.
Somehow Kai knew this. He took my hand and guided me, without speaking, to the dunes, where we stretched out side by side, staring up at the sky as we laid our lives bare. When Kai spoke, I got the sense in his hesitation and his stammer that he didn’t confide in too many people.
And yet here I was, and I was listening hard.
His dad had been troubled, he told me. His few, dim memories were of a well-intentioned but angry guy who couldn’t be anchored to a sick wife and two sons. He remembered his mom more vibrantly, with her coaxing voice and her spill of curly black hair, a comforting presence until she was abruptly gone. “But it’s my aunt who’s really taken care of us all,” he said. “Mom died knowing Isabella would look out for Hatch and me. That’s why I owe it to Hatch. Pay it forward and all that.”
“You two seem close. Are you a lot alike?”
“Nah, Hatch is a practical dude. I’m the one chasing rainbows. Even if it means working sixty hours a week at El Cielo, scrounging for grants and loans for school. Which reminds me.” He slipped his phone out of his knapsack. “Let me take your picture? It’s for a project I’m working on.”
I was instantly self-protective, shielding myself from his phone lens. “Really? Now? Me? I don’t know, my hair’s all frizzed out from the Ferris wheel and the salt—and I haven’t looked in the mirror all day!” But Kai just laughed, didn’t seem to notice or care, and he seemed so happy for me to be in his lens that soon I was laughing, too, as he clicked shot after shot.
“Enough!” I put up my hand, ducking away.
“One more, then the torture’s over. I think you gave me some interesting moments, anyway.” As I sat up, Kai did, too, mirroring my position, knees knocked and toe to toe. Holden always took a different angle, he liked to keep an arm over my shoulder, protectively herding me into enclosures as he warded off all and any danger. But Kai met me as my equal.
Ever since my ordeal of recovery had begun, I’d had to hear the refrain about everyone’s confusion about that changeling self I was evolving into right before the accident. Holden, Rachel, my other friends, and my parents all spoke about it. How I’d been pushing them away. Leaving them behind. On this beach, with this guy, I knew that I must have been pushing in a new direction, toward another destination—and not just because I’d felt rebellious. I was acting on the impulse that Kai himself had spoken of, that evening when we’d huddled together in the cold-storage room. We both craved experience and variety and change. I, who’d been given so much, and Kai, who’d been given so little—we both needed something more, and we were going to figure out how to get it.
Kai had gotten me to remember that.
For a while we stayed out on the dunes, listening to the gulls, the tips of our ears and noses lightly frozen, the sea wind riffling over us until we were goose-pimpled and hungry again—and then at some point there was funnel cake and a burger that we inhaled with a shared bottle of water. I closed my eyes as Kai caught me and pulled me deep into the long grasses up the dunes. We knocked against each other, playful, then we quieted as we watched the sun burn off the end of the day.
The sea and sky looked like crumpled aluminum foil. I could feel my body’s familiar desire—insistence—for sleep pulling and enfolding me. It was only natural; I was healing, and it was safe here besides. I settled my cheek into the crook of Kai’s arm and stared out sleepily over the horizon. In my mind’s eye, the Volvo was a plastic toy pirouetting weightless over the bridge.
A moment of time, blink and gone. And yet nothing could have stopped it; the forward momentum of that car was its inexorable destiny, bridge to water, life to death. I let the icy what-if sweep through me, submerge me. I didn’t speak, didn’t move. Kai’s presence was indivisible from the air I breathed, and I couldn’t bear to say the wrong words, or any words at all. Not if it meant that I would break the spell.
24
A Fancy Way of Saying
I was home in time for dinner, though I wasn’t hungry. In the kitchen, I found a box of takeout pizza with two slices of plain cheese saved for me, plus a homemade three-bean salad. My parents were downstairs watching a movie.
When I joined them on the sectional, Dad scooted over and patted the space on the couch between them. “We just started, if you want to join,” Mom whispered with a tiny, hopeful smile.
As if everything was fine. As if they were completely relaxed that I’d taken the car out all day, and that I’d only answered their nervous, attempting-to-be-measured texts (such as Mom’s I hope you’re being careful, Sweetie) with the occasional one word (yep, ok, soon)—depending on the question.
I knew my parents better than that. They were in no way mellow about my falling off the radar. In my absence, they’d had discussions, they’d made a plan. And after the romantic comedy was over and I’d said my good-nights and retreated to my room and opened my email, I found my answer.
A note from Dr. P.
A note that had my parents’ agitated phone call to him all over it.
Hey, Ember—
Just checking in. Hadn’t heard from you in a bit. Happy to hear that you are continuing to make strides with rehabilitation. (Your mom keeps me posted.) And I wanted to congratulate you on getting behind the wheel again—that’s good forward initiative. I’m all for it!
At the same time, I wanted to take this opportunity to restate something we talked about in terms of maladaptive reaction. Which is just a fancy way of saying “not as easy as it seems.” Not that any of this is “easy” for you, but I think I should put you in touch with a wonderful cognitive behaviorist, who also happens to be a great pal of mine—Dr. Linda Applebaum.
Her office is right on Front Street, so that’s walking distance from you. She’s easy to chat with, and I think you’d truly benefit from a therapeutic alliance with her.
A professional analyst would be a constructive alternative to the well-meaning bias (hey, I’d even go so far as to say INTERFERENCE) of family and friends. I’ve spoken with Linda myself just this evening, and she’s got a great way of talking anyone down from a tree or out of a jam. She’s waiting for your email or call, so whenever you’re ready to do this on your own steam, she’s there.
Are you looking forward to Thanksgiving?
Best,
Dr. P
Dr. P strikes again. I could almost see him going through the first draft of this email, adding in all of those friendly parts, the “hey” and “pal” and those homey Lissa expressions “out of a tree” and “in a jam,” plus the end mention of Thanksgiving. The real question was: did my parents and Dr. P really think I needed a shrink, just because I’d borrowed the car?
I’d done therapy sessions three times a week at Addington. My psychiatrist there had been a really cool guy, Dr. Lawrence Lim. Everyone called him Laurie, which reminded me of Little Women. Who didn’t trust a guy named Laurie? And my Laurie was no different. We’d gone through some of my Anthony Travolo issues, my shock and guilt—though at some point I must have shut it down when I’d stopped talking about Anthony completely.
But now I pictured Laurie’s spotless office, his glass bowl of loose Starbursts, his comfy armchair that I always got to curl into with my handful of Starbursts and my daily troubles. I hadn’t thought much about any of that until now.
My parents were right. I was never going to talk with them about Anthony, or the night of the wreck. I’d always be rearing up and away from them. They didn’t know how to reach me, either, no matter how good their intentions.
“Sorry, just checking in. You need anything?” Dad might say, poking his head in my bedroom door. “Are you all right, Ember?” Or I’d wake to feel my mother’s papery hand on my forehead. Reassuring herself that her daughter was alive and breathing—and hadn’t slipped into another coma.
But I didn’t need a “therapeutic alliance,” either. I was doing all right. Didn’t today prove it? No speeding ticket, no fender bender, no side-of-the-road meltdown. Why would I need any more outside help than I already had? Sure, Rachel and I had hit a bump, but we’d repair. We always did. And Holden and I would never be less than friends.
And everything I had with Kai—even if I always wanted more—seemed to sustain me just enough until the next time I saw him. If I were going to talk to anyone, maybe I would prefer it to be someone without that bias, someone who hadn’t been with me through this ordeal, or had only known me after I’d lost Anthony—and I had a bleak feeling that my loss of Anthony was bigger than my conscious brain was prepared to reckon with.
The next morning, my parents were cautious with me.
“What are you doing today, sweets?” asked Mom.
“Homework, maybe see a movie with Rachel.”
It wasn’t the answer they wanted. But they’d obviously made a pact with Dr. P not to talk about yesterday’s disappearance. I waited until they’d stepped out around the corner to their favorite diner for their usual Sunday brunch, and then I took out the car again, down to Livingston Street, just to think. I pulled into an outdoor parking area near one of the main federal courthouses.
I bought a coffee and donut from the food cart. With all the car doors locked, I ate my breakfast. It was maybe five minutes, maybe twenty, but unlike last night, this sleep came with real peace in the lingering closeness of yesterday with Kai. He hadn’t called or written, but I was getting used to this rhythm. The way we spent time together didn’t obey the natural laws of dating. Instead I’d have to tap into the dream, find the brine and beach sand, and the sweet softness of that particular memory.
When I woke up, it was clear to me that if I was really in the “jam” that Dr. P had mentioned, I actually did know someone who I could talk to. So obvious. It seemed silly that I hadn’t called Lissa before.
25
Drive It
Juilliard students and School of American Ballet students all shared dorm space together in the Meredith Willson Residence Hall in Midtown. Literally hundreds of kids were auditioning, rehearsing, dreaming, despairing, being made into stars or accepting rejection all under the same roof. It was like a mini-kingdom of dance, fueled on talent and protein bars.
Monday afternoon, I took the subway to Columbus Circle and walked the block up Sixtieth. I signed my name at the lobby desk and pushed through one of the four industrial turnstiles to the equally impersonal elevator bank. My heart quick-jumped at the proximity of all these students—dancers, every one of them. I’d never been talented enough to take dance to the next level, but there’d been a time when I’d loved it just as much as Lissa. It was exciting to be around all that focus and energy, even if it was bittersweet, knowing what I knew now, that I’d always be relegated to the audience.
Lissa was in 1517, up to the fifteenth floor and then down an endless, dingy corridor of pill-bug-gray carpeting. The windowless hall smelled overpoweringly of lemon air freshener.
“Waffles, waffles!” Lissa answered the door with a whoop—but where had I heard that before? Then I remembered—I’d left that as a voice mail message for Rachel, on Halloween.
Why had Lissa said it?
“I’m so happy to see you!” I blurted. And I was. Lissa was wild as always, dressed in her signature unique style—a LITTLE MISS DIVA T-shirt, shredded jean shorts over rainbow sockless tights, taped feet, and a dozen blue stripes like jaybird feathers in her long black hair. Lissa’s cupid lips were almost always ruby red, meant to be seen from the theater’s nosebleeds. At any given moment, she could have been Giselle, or Coppélia, or Snow White.
“You’re the best to come visit. Nobody does; I’m simply not exotic enough. University of Vermont, or Berkeley—now that’s where everyone wants to go, to ski or the beach, or some stinky fraternity party. None of which is happening chez moi.”
I smiled, remembering something Holden had said—that Lissa looked like the future and talked like the past. “Believe me, this is plenty exotic,” I assured her. “It’s like Fame—the next dimension.”
“I wish it were that glamorous. But look—speaking of a new dimension,” Lissa said, lifting her T-shift to reveal a line of script running up her side.
I squinted to read it. “ ‘I don’t want dancers who want to dance, I want dancers who need to dance. —George Balanchine.’ ” I laughed. “Nice ink. I’ve never heard that quote before.”
“It’s such a lovely thought, though, yes?” Lissa traced the loop-de-loops of the words with her finger, then raised an artful eyebrow at me. “Is it too earnest? Do you think I’ll regret it?”
“Lissa, you’re the most earnest person I know; plus you don’t regret anything.”
“True.” She grinned. “Kick off your shoes. Ooh, and you’re wearing my jacket. Name your price, remember.”
“Not for sale. Sorry.” I hung up the jacket on the wall peg, then pulled off the boots and left them at the door as well, sliding in on my socks. Lissa’s studio was just what I would have guessed—a few wobbly sticks of secondhand furniture, a lot of center space to move in, plus a great sound system now tuned to something that I would have termed as vaguely experimental jazz.
“All mine, and no roommate is the sugar on top.” Lissa gave an airy wave. “Except I’m never here. I told you I’m in the corps for The Nutcracker this season, right? And next year I’m an understudy in La Sylphide. They’re even paying me real money, of all ginormous luxuries. Want tea? I was just about to have some; right now I’m in love with one called Sunday Saturnalia. But I bet they won’t arrest us if we have it on Monday.”
“Sure.” I collapsed into a jalapeño-green beanbag chair, flinging out my arms and legs. A ballerina barre had been built against the opposite wall. Over it was a poster of Nureyev leaping through space. I breathed it all in.
“How’s school? Is it such unimaginable weirdness to be back, just hum-de-hum, like nothing happened, after everything you went through?”
“There’s good days and strange days,” I answered honestly. Today, when I thought back on it, being a strange one. At school, Rachel and I had shared lunch, and things felt to me as if we were in more of a truce than any real burying of the hatchet. I still hadn’t been in communication with Holden—or Kai, for that matter. I’d been feeling vaguely off center all day. But I’d been right to come see her, because Lissa, besides being a breath of familiarity, also seemed like the answer to something.
“Except for that dying cactus on the windowsill,” I said, “I’ve got to admit, I’m pretty jealous of you. It must be so cool to know what you’re doing with your life.”
“First of all, he’s not dying; he’s hibernating. Second—jealous? You?” Lissa glided from the kitchenette across the room to hand me my tea. “Last time we talked about the future, you had dreams of heading off to cooking school in Paris to learn how to poach the perfect egg.”
“Paris?” I sat up to take the mug. “Seriously? When did I say that?”
“Well, I mean it’s not like I can pinpoint it. You were always talking about it. But I think that it was something you started in on sometime after you bombed that audition.”
“What audition?”
“Chicago? You don’t remember? You wanted Roxie, and you made chorus.” Lissa dropped gracefully onto the futon. “It was back in December, and Birdie was working with Mr. Cutts and all the drama department people. I didn’t see your audition, but you weren’t happy about it. You were definitely pegged for a shot at the lead. I landed Velma—it was a lot of work, especially for my senior spring.” She rolled her eyes but she didn’t mean it; knowing Lissa, she had loved each grueling rehearsal. “Jeepers creepers, Ember, you could not be giving me more of a blank stare. You don’t remember? Well, you were a really good sport about it, but I think you were also feeling kind of like, okay, time to move on. Resolved, I guess. You had other plans.”
“Like culinary school…”
“For sure. Do you still cook? During winter break, you made me this scrumptious box of homemade truffles. It was like heaven. But I was surprised you didn’t get Roxie, personally. Gadzooks, but that all feels like a long time ago.” Lissa swung her long legs around, pulling into a seated stretch, her calves flexing élevé, relevé, élevé.
Chocolate truffles. Paris. An audition for Chicago. Nope, no recall of that. My tea tasted like hot, sweet campfire smoke. “I can’t remember. What about ‘waffles, waffles’—what’s that about?”
Lissa laughed. “It happened one afternoon after practice. We’d been planning to be all healthy and go to Siggy’s for those quinoa salads we always craved, but then we got there and checked out the menu and nothing looked particularly delicious—”
“Oh, wait—and we both said ‘waffles, waffles,’ at the same time!” I could feel the afternoon, a real-true click, the two of us hunched in the wooden booth at Siggy’s. “We wanted waffles and pancakes and French toast and muffins. Mountains of carbs.”
“Yes!” Lissa clapped her hands. “That was just the phrase you used. ‘Mountains of carbs!’ ”
The afternoon unspooled in a gust of wind and woolly scarves. Dashing out of the restaurant. Jumping on the subway to get to the IHOP over on Flatbush Avenue. “We were crazy; we must have each eaten for two,” said Lissa. “But that afternoon was hilarious.”
“And then we paid, big-time,” I remembered. We hardly ate a thing the next day except for carrot sticks. Dancers can pick and choose from eating disorders, but a satisfying afternoon of pancakes is just not in the game plan.
