Chrysalis, page 6
My words are measured. “It’s always been too special to me to want to give it away. I painted it when I was going through a tough time.”
She blinks slowly and I see a stain of pink color her cheeks. But I don’t want her to dwell on the fact that I’ve given her one of my most prized possessions. I want to spit this out. “Do you want to see a picture of me at that age?”
She nods.
“Go into my office. There’s a yearbook on one of the shelves. The spine says ‘Legacy ’96’.”
She nods. “Hang on.”
And as she puts down the laptop facing the other direction, the view from my windows comes into focus. It’s strange for me, too—that she’s there and I’m not. And in that moment, a wave of pure homesickness crashes over me. I want to be back in my own house, sleeping in my own bed, with her.
When she settles back onto the bed and repositions the laptop back so that it’s facing her, I see the cover of the familiar book.
“Turn to the Juniors,” I say, and I see her flipping pages. I can tell the moment when she reaches the page that has my picture. A small smile graces her face, and she touches her finger to the middle of the page.”
“You were adorable,” she gushes and it makes me smile, even though I hate that picture.
She hasn’t met my eyes in a full minute, and as she drinks in the thumbnail-sized image, I conjure up the picture in my own mind—me in my prep school uniform, a maroon v-neck sweater over a collared shirt and tie. My head is cocked slightly to the side and I’m smiling at the camera just like they tell you to do.
“Did you even have an awkward phase?” She finally looks up at me. “I expected a pimply-faced kid with braces and dated glasses. But fifteen-year-old you is kind of hot. If you and I had gone to school together, I totally would have had a crush on you.”
It’s my turn to smile sadly. “Now look on my side of the bed, in my bedside table. You’ll find a different picture there.”
She gives me a questioning look, not knowing what I’m hinting at, but doing it all the same. She puts down the laptop again, and I hear the drawer open just before I hear her rummaging. “How many pixy sticks does one person need?” she calls out.
Under any other circumstances I’d come up with a clever retort. But I’ve never shown anybody—not even Bex—the picture I’ve held on to for so long.
When she places the laptop back on top of her legs I can see the picture in her hand and in just a few seconds, her face has sobered. “Wow. You look really different.”
In this picture, I’m dressed head-to-toe in black. It’s the first time she’s seen my natural hair, which is thick with loose corkscrew curls. It’s a big difference from the crew cut in my school picture and the buzz cut I wear now. What people never guess on their own is that I’m half black—my mother was light-skinned and my dad was white—but seeing me with my hair grown out and an end-of-summer tan makes it more obvious.
People who don’t know a lot of mixed race people don’t get the skin tone thing. They see the coloring of two parents and figure the kid’s coloring should be right in the middle. But the traits of the darker parent don’t always dominate. It’s a common misconception, and a false one. Genetics are more complex than that.
In the picture, I’m sitting on the sidewalk in front of Heroes and Villains, looking into the camera, unsmiling. My face is blank—almost dead-looking, except for my eyes. Even someone who doesn’t know me could see the ocean of pain behind those eyes. I remember that kid, and how tired he was from trying to fit in. A round peg in a square hole nearly every place he went.
“At school, I made sure to blend in,” I begin. “Buttoned-up. Clean-shaven. They thought I was just another white kid from a low-rent part of town. I let them believe what they wanted to believe. But that was me over the summer. In my neighborhood, it was smarter to play up the part of me that was half black. So I grew out my hair and did everything I could to get a tan.”
She looks up at me with pain in her own eyes.
“There were other mixed kids but I was the pretty boy with the blue eyes. I must’ve gotten into ten fights that summer, between not letting shit-talkers push me around and keeping guys away from Bex. For her, the light skin and blue eyes made every guy want her. It was totally backwards. The other girls hated her. She got her ass kicked a lot, too. But she learned to hold her own.”
“That must’ve been terrible…” Darby says. Her eyes are shining and it tugs at something inside to see her compassion for me.
“It was,” I admit. “That summer, it all came to a head. I don’t know what did it, but something inside me broke. I couldn’t take it anymore.”
“When did you stop passing?” she asks, not sounding completely surprised. I’ve alluded to it before, but it’s not something we’ve ever talked about.
“When I was little, it was different. I didn’t think about it much. I wouldn’t have denied it, but no one ever asked. Then, when I was in the sixth grade, I overheard some older boys talking. We were all in the locker room, getting changed for practice.”
“What happened?” The voice she uses is calm, and patient—the voice of somebody who’s trained not to react. She’s slipped into psychiatrist mode, but I’d rather have her stoicism than her pity.
“They were talking about a kid in their class. A kid who was like me in every other way. Poor neighborhood. On scholarship. Really smart. Except he was obviously black. I wasn’t friends with the kid—he was a lot older than me, in ninth grade at that point. But I knew who he was and that he didn’t have many friends. And from the way they talked about him, I found out why.”
“What did they say?”
I shrug. “Exactly what you’d expect. Shit about charity cases and all the affirmative action kids ruining their chances of getting into the good schools and keeping the riffraff out. I’ll spare you the rest. You get the gist.”
“I want to know.”
“You already do know,” I say more quietly. “You know how they talk about black people when they think there are none around.”
She sighs. But she doesn’t look away. And I respect her for that. She probably knows the kids who said it. As another child of the Chicago elite, she’d probably met them at cotillions and country clubs.
“I’m sorry.”
“By the time Ben met me, I looked more like I do there,” I say, referring to the picture she’s holding. “At some point, I stopped caring about passing. Growing my hair out made less of a difference than I thought, though. Most people still never figured it out. People still don’t.”
I think about other friends who are obviously mixed race. People are always prying into their ethnicities, asking ‘what are you?’ and other insensitive questions that are none of anyone’s business. Now that I’m older I’m glad that I dodged this bullet. It’s exhausting work, to school people who don’t get it about race.
“Who took this?” Her eyes sweep over the image over and over again.
“Randy,” I say. “He was worried about me. He took this picture because he wanted me to see how bad I looked every day.”
“Was this before or after you painted the butterfly?”
“Before,” I say and I know what she wants to ask next. But this is progress for me, so I shake my head before it can go any further.
“I’ll tell you about it, I promise. But not now. Another time.”
“A package came for you today, Mr. Blaine.”
I usually nod hello to Stuart, the night doorman, as I pass, but this news interrupts my stride. Something has come for me. I don’t recognize the return address. It’s from a company called Muse. But I can see that it’s come from the states. I wrack my brain trying to figure out whether I had Kat order something for me that I’ve forgotten, but I come up blank. I’m eager to get back into my apartment and see what’s inside.
Sitting atop the inner package that is wrapped tightly in layers of bubble tape, I see a printed note.
Dear Michael,
Shut up. I don’t want to hear a single complaint about this. I’ve heard good things about it. It’s a meditation tool for people with wandering minds. I think it could help you. So try it, okay? And not just once. Long enough to see whether it makes a difference.
Love,
Darby
With a mixture of curiosity and caution, I tear open the bubble wrap and study the box. They’re meditation headphones. A quick read of the explanation tells me that it detects the brain waves of the person who’s meditating. Apart from monitoring brain activity, the headphones will tell me when I’m getting distracted with conscious thought and monkey mind.
Before I let myself deconstruct the concept behind this product, I think of my girl. I know she’s just trying to help. Trying to give me coping strategies based on what she understands. It’s sweet. The truth is, I trust her. And, because she asked me to, I’ll give it a try. I know I’ve given her every reason to believe that I’m hostile toward her knowing about this part of me, but I’m trying to turn that around.
I got your package. Thank you. I text her, even though it’s the middle of the night in Chicago. She’s on late shifts this week, so she probably just went to bed. I’m surprised when my phone buzzes a few minutes later.
You’re not mad?
No, I’m not mad. I promise, I’ll try it. What the hell are you doing up?
I see the dancing dots. She’s composing a response, one that is taking a long time. She starts and stops and then does it again at least five times over the course of several minutes. But the long response I expect never comes. The next message I get from her says simply:
Can’t sleep.
And I wonder what’s really going on. Before I can ask, a photo comes through. It’s a picture of a pint of Ben & Jerry’s in her kitchen recycling bin. Pistachio Pistachio is her favorite flavor. I hid two pints of that and two pints of her second favorite flavor, Coffee, Coffee Buzz Buzz Buzz!, in her kitchen freezer before I left.
Took you long enough, I text back. You’re slower than molasses.
It was behind, like, ten other things! You could’ve made it easier.
I could’ve…but what fun would that be?
I’ll give you that…this is better than a scavenger hunt.
I’m beaming.
You just made my night.
You made mine. I so needed this today.
Sometimes ice cream is the answer to all of life’s problems.
Amen to that. I’m going to crawl into bed and read now. This guy I like just gave me a really great book.
An hour later, I’ve showered and am about to do the same when something tells me to call Bex. She picks up on the first ring and doesn’t bother to greet me.
“Dad called. He wants to meet Ella.”
The hair on the back of my neck stands up. I wait for her to keep talking. This is killing my Darby buzz.
“Said he tried as long as he could to respect us not wanting to see him, but that once he found out he had a granddaughter, he couldn’t do it anymore. He said he hoped that, after so many years, there had been enough water under the bridge. And that kids need their grandparents.”
“Did you tell him that kids also need their fathers?”
I’ve always been against the idea of letting him back into our lives. The last time either of us talked to him was ten years ago. Bex stopped being angry at him a long time ago. I think she was never interested in a relationship because she had truly left him behind. I know without having to ask out loud that Bex has changed her mind.
“How can you even consider this?” I demand.
“Back then, I wasn’t thinking ten years ahead,” she says in her defense. “Kids ask about these things, Michael. They have Grandparents’ Day at Ella’s school. Every year she has more questions about Mom and Dad.”
“It’s not like she doesn’t have grandparents. Alex’s parents live half an hour away.”
“And Dad lives half an hour away in the other direction. When Ella grows up, she’ll want to know why she wasn’t allowed to meet him. I’ll be the one she blames for keeping her grandfather away from her—not you.”
I flop onto my bed and stare up at the ceiling. I miss my waterbed. Flopping down on a spring mattress just isn’t the same. I know Bex is right about Ella’s curiosity. I remember us having questions about our own grandparents and resenting how little we were allowed to know.
“She’s six, Bex. She thinks grandparents are made out of sugar, and spice and everything nice. Her only frame of reference is Mom-Mom and Pop-Pop.” That’s what Ella calls Alex’s parents. “But you’re forgetting something. We don’t know him. Are you willing to present a total stranger to Ella as a person she’s supposed to love and respect?”
This silences Bex. The truth is, we have no idea whether our father is a decent human being. The fact that he left us is evidence to the contrary.
“If you do this…” I continue. “You’d better figure out what he’s about before Ella ever lays eyes on him. And you’d better be sure he’s not gonna disappear.”
Bex is still silent, but as soon as I figure out what she’s thinking, I grind out a determined “No.”
I don’t want any part of this. But Bex wants us to do this together.
“If she does meet him, she’s gonna want to know why Uncle Michael doesn’t talk to grandpa.”
“I’ll tell her the truth.”
“You’ll also be teaching her that instead of forgiving someone, you should hold a thirty-year grudge.”
Fuck.
“Look, you don’t have to decide now. I’m not even totally decided. Just thinking about it, okay?”
Before we hang up, we agree to talk about it when I come to town. I’ll add my father to the long list of people who Avi is checking out. With my chances at sleeping shot, I unbox the headset Darby sent me and read the instruction manual. Now’s as good a time as any to take it for a spin.
Saturday mornings are my favorite. I always sleep late, go for a long run, and most weeks, I’m able to talk to Darby before she goes to work. On weekends, she typically goes in at around 8PM, which gives us plenty of time to talk.
I smile when I see her on my laptop screen. The other thing I love about Saturdays is that, since we’re both home, we can Skype. I sit in my kitchen, where the light from outside and above are always bright enough to show my face. She sits on her bed facing the window, so I can see hers.
“How’d the fellowship review go?” I ask eagerly, knowing that yesterday she met with the committee. She had her findings peer-reviewed just in time to present it to the board. With validated results in her pocket, she’s in a different position. Instead of asking for more money to prove her hypotheses, she can proceed with a new kind of testing and zero in on a treatment option.
“Not as expected,” she says with a cringe.
“Tell me what happened.” I study her face for clues. This is why I prefer Skype. I’ve gotten better at hearing the nuances in her voice, but her face more often tells me what I need to know. She doesn’t look crestfallen, which is a good sign.
“The review board part went great,” she begins, brightening. She’s looking at the image of me on her screen, which gives the illusion that she’s not looking into my eyes. I miss this part more than I thought I would—miss seeing her look right at me.
“If their reaction was any indication, they’ll fund the next phase of the project.”
“Congratulations, sweetie,” I say, reining my alarm in long enough to give her a warm smile. “I’m so proud of you.”
She returns my smile.
“So what’s the problem?”
Her face falls a little. “Rich dropped a bomb.”
“He quit?”
“Worse. You were right. His feelings for me are definitely not platonic.”
She shakes her head and gestures her arms in a way that puts me on alert. My body tenses as I begin to suspect that Rich has made his feelings known in a way that will make me want to do him harm. I command myself not to lose my temper. If I freak out every time she tells me something I don’t like, she’ll stop telling me things.
“How’d you find out?” I ask as neutrally as possible.
“After the review board…we headed to the bar. That’s nothing new. We’ve done it every single time. If things seem like they went well, we celebrate. If things seem like they went badly, we cry into our beer and promise one another we’ll write each other reference letters once we need new jobs.”
She talks about their friendship casually, and I have to suppress a wave of emotion. I know it’s ridiculous. Of course I want her to have friends. Still, it doesn’t stop me from wishing that I were the one doing things with her that her other friends take for granted.
“What was different about this time?”
“He was just…talking differently, you know? About what a great team we are, and how our research is going to change the world, about all these things that we’ll do together—professionally, after we finish the project—in the future tense.”
I’m impatient for her to get to the part where he makes a pass at her, and bite the inside of my cheek to stop myself from saying something I’ll regret.
“At some point, I got tired, and he was being so weird I figured he’d probably had enough to drink. So I called an Uber and he waited with me outside. The Uber was still a few minutes away. And, he kind of hugged me but I thought, whatever, he’s drunk.”
I grit my teeth.
“Then, out of the blue, he just kissed me. After I got over the shock I pushed him away. I told him that he was drunk and that he ought to go home. So the Ubers came, and we went our separate ways and I thought it was over.”
It’s taking a huge amount of effort to appear calm. “It wasn’t over?”
“Oh, no, it wasn’t over,” Darby says, still caught up in telling the story. She has no idea how tense this is making me.
“Three o’clock in the morning, someone’s pounding on my door. I go downstairs, see it’s him, and he seems more sober than he did before, so I let him in. He immediately apologizes, and I accept. I make him a cup of coffee and he just pours his heart out to me. It was actually kind of sweet.”
