Twice, page 14
“Time, time, time,” she mumbled, searching for her phone. She lifted a dirty T-shirt and a paperback book, then finally found it under a pillow.
“Ahh, no,” she moaned. It was nearly two o’clock. The car was supposed to meet her in five minutes. She called her assistant but got no answer. She pulled on her sandals.
Suddenly, her room phone rang, and the shrill noise startled her. She stared at it, thinking about the news she’d gotten yesterday, that her ex-husband was here on the island. Her assistant had seen him wandering around the lobby. At first, she wondered if he was stalking her again. He’d never liked the way things ended.
But maybe it was just a coincidence. There was a big new casino here, drawing lots of tourists, and her ex had become enamored with gambling over the years. Either way, if this was him calling, she wanted no part of it. She let the phone ring until it stopped.
She hurried to the mirror, slapped on some moisturizer and a little makeup, then tousled her hair. She was proud, maybe a bit surprised, that at her age, she didn’t have much gray. It helped her look young, which, much as she hated to admit it, also helped her in the photography business. She yanked on a long-sleeved cotton hoodie to protect her from the sun, then grabbed three lenses and shoved them in her camera bag. She did her typical spin around the room, making sure she wasn’t forgetting anything.
As she pulled the door shut behind her, the room phone started ringing again.
The Composition Book
It’s obvious by now, Boss, that I’ve hidden many things from you. I am sorry. Secrecy is a loan against your better judgment. You pay the interest in regret.
I have kept my illness under wraps. This will make you mad, and perhaps sad. But please don’t feel sorry for me. I knew this was coming. For what it’s worth, I know how my life will end. I’m already having trouble walking. Next, I’ll have a stroke. I’ll lose my ability to speak. After that, I’ll need to be fed and bathed. And soon my brain will stop communicating with my lungs. When they fail, so will I.
That stroke is coming soon. I’ve suffered it once. I will suffer it again. Despite my remarkable power, I’ll die like anyone else, having done what I could with what I had.
So, please, keep reading. And let me correct the biggest mistake of my life.
✶
The six months after I returned from California were, for Gianna and me, like a second honeymoon. We had money from the film option, so I didn’t take any new assignments, and I encouraged Gianna to cut her work schedule at the camera store. For the first time in a long while, we had unhurried hours together. We took weekend trips. We stayed up late watching movies. We brought food to the alley cats in the morning and ate breakfasts in half-empty diners after most people had gone to work. We visited the Bronx Zoo many times, Gianna bouncing along, snapping photos while I carried her equipment over my shoulder.
We made love often during that stretch. The first night after I returned, I’d been so attentive to her body that afterward Gianna purred, “You should go to California more often.” I smiled at her, but deep down I knew my focus—that night, and for much of the time that followed—was forged in guilt, perhaps the world’s strongest motivator for man’s temporary good behavior.
When thoughts about Nicolette Pink arose, I suppressed them. Nothing really happened with her, or at least what did happen, I had resisted. That’s what I told myself. And what you tell yourself long enough becomes, like new paint on an old wall, the only color you see.
✶
The movie finished filming and was scheduled to be released in late November. We received an invitation to a premiere in Los Angeles. It came in a large, expensive-looking envelope and had red felt lining and embossed lettering.
“Do you want to go?” I asked Gianna.
“Not really. But you do, right?”
I did and I didn’t. My ego surely wanted to see this story on a fifty-foot-high screen. But the idea of my wife and Nicolette in the same place was worrisome. I hadn’t seen her since that night. After that elevator encounter, I didn’t know how I’d start a conversation.
In the end, Gianna made it easy. She had scheduled her annual doctor’s checkup long before we knew about the premiere. It fell on the day before, and rescheduling would have pushed it out another two months.
“You go,” she told me. “Have fun.”
“All right.”
My stomach clenched. Have fun? What is it about guilt that shades even the simplest phrase?
I got my hair cut. I purchased a new blazer and a fashionable shirt. When the time came, I boarded a plane at JFK and flew six hours to the West Coast.
When I disembarked at the Los Angeles airport, I found a pay phone and called Gianna.
“I’m here,” I said.
“Alfie?”
Her voice sounded odd.
“You all right?”
“I went to the doctor today.”
“Everything OK?”
“Yes.”
“Good.”
“Alfie?”
“Yeah?”
“Alfie?”
“What is it?”
A beat.
“We’re pregnant.”
Nassau
LaPorta banged down the house phone. If Gianna Rule wasn’t in her room, she could be anywhere. Maybe leaving the country.
“Should we check outside?” Sampson said. “The pool?”
“I don’t know what she looks like.”
“No picture?”
“No.”
LaPorta thought about Alfie’s description in the notebook. A stunning woman with dark hair. A woman whose smile could knock you over. Someone like that might stand out. Then again, it was just a suspect’s words. For all LaPorta knew, Gianna Rule was as plain as cardboard.
The elevator door opened and three people exited. LaPorta glanced, then glanced back quickly, because one of them was an attractive dark-haired woman with a shoulder bag, and protruding from it was the rounded top of a camera lens.
Alfie. The zoo. Gianna taking his picture . . .
“Excuse me,” LaPorta yelled, louder than he intended. Several people turned but not the woman, who kept walking.
“Excuse me!” he repeated, stepping toward her. “Gianna Rule?”
She stopped. “Who are you?”
“Are you Gianna Rule?”
She stared for a moment.
“I’m sorry, I need to be somewhere,” she said, moving past.
LaPorta nodded to Sampson, who stepped in front of her, flashing his badge.
“You’re gonna be late,” LaPorta said.
The Composition Book
A single thought can change every part of you. How you walk, how you smile, how you listen, how you breathe. I did go to that premiere in Los Angeles, but I felt like I was going in costume. The whole time I was shaking hands or blinking against flashbulbs, I was thinking, I am going to be a father. The idea turned every sound into background noise. It was a new sensation. It was also terrifying.
Looking back, Boss, I think it scared me in part because of the unusual life I had gotten used to—double time, double chances. I didn’t know how I would use my gift once a baby came, or even if I should. I also realized I might eventually pass my strange power on to this child, as my mother had passed her power on to me.
All this was going on in my head—while I was about to be portrayed on a giant movie screen.
And then Nicolette arrived.
She was dressed in a silver lamé gown, backless, low-cut in front. Her ample hair—dark in the movie—was once again a blinding blond. There were hundreds of people trying to talk to her, but when she saw me, she hurried over. She took my hand, formally, but held it longer than one usually does, and gently rubbed her thumb across my palm.
“Hi,” she said.
“Hi, Nicolette.”
“I’ve missed you. Are you good?”
“Yeah. And you?”
“Everything’s great.”
I couldn’t tell if she meant with life or with us. She was so calm. Meanwhile, my scalp was sweating. I think it must have showed, because she leaned in and lowered her voice.
“It’s OK,” she said. “Let’s go make someone happy.”
I forced a grin, because I couldn’t come up with words.
“I’ll see you after?” she said.
“Yeah,” I said.
She was yanked away as cameras flashed.
And that was it.
I never did see Nicolette afterward. I went straight to the airport and caught a red-eye flight home, as I’d promised Gianna I would do.
When I walked through our door, just after 7:00 a.m., I was still dressed from the premiere, wrinkled, grimy, my lower back aching from trying to sleep on the plane. The light was dim and the apartment was silent. I stood there, knowing Gianna was in the bedroom, waiting with our big news, and I hate to admit this, Boss, but I didn’t move. I couldn’t get the image of Nicolette out of my mind. Undressing me in the elevator. Rubbing her fingers in my hand. Was it guilt—or something worse? A desire to be there rather than here? I slammed my eyes shut and shook my head to clear it.
“Alfie? Is that you?”
And there she was, my now-pregnant wife, leaning against the bedroom doorway. She wore a Boston University T-shirt and white sweat pants, her hair matted from sleep, and she smiled when she saw me as she always did. But quickly, that smile drooped.
“What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean?”
“You look funny.”
“I’m just tired. You know those flights.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah.”
She took a big breath.
“So . . .”
She opened her palms.
“Ready to be a daddy?”
I went to her quickly and squeezed her body against mine. But I never answered the question.
✶
Now, I want to explain the next six months, Boss, because I’ve never spoken about them to anyone. I’m not sure I realized their significance until recently. Some events in life you process as they happen. Others take a lifetime to understand.
Gianna loved being pregnant. She followed all the health tips. She stopped drinking alcohol. She even halted certain physical activities like roller skating—which we used to do in the park—just to be safe. She insisted we look for a bigger apartment.
“But I like where we live,” I protested.
“It’s not just you and me anymore, Alfie.”
I accompanied her to the obstetrician and picked up prenatal vitamins at the drugstore. I chased down foods for her cravings. But the more excited she got planning for the baby, the more outside those plans I felt. I grew short-tempered over little things, and we fell into petty arguments, most of which I traveled back and undid, because I didn’t want her remembering this time as combative. I must have said twice at least three times a day.
Gianna could sense I was struggling. She constantly reassured me, rubbing my arm as she lay in my lap, whispering, “Alfie, it’s going to be great. It really is. You’ll be an amazing father.”
I went along, taking deep breaths and hoping the idea would embrace me. Then, one afternoon, early in Gianna’s fourth month, I came home from playing basketball with friends. She was sitting by the window, her hands on her belly.
“I just saw Sam,” I said. “There’s a Brazilian festival by the river tonight. He and Annie want us to go with them.”
“No thanks, Alfie,” she said, smiling.
“Why not?”
“No reason. Just taking it easy with the baby.”
I frowned. “The baby’s not due for five months. We’re allowed to go out.”
“It’s Friday. It’ll be crowded.”
“So? That’s the fun of it. There’ll be music, food.”
“I just don’t want to.”
“What if I want to?”
I said it more sharply than intended. I thought about jumping back a few minutes, but this had become a recurrent issue; part of me wanted to hash it out.
“Is this going to be us now?” I continued. “We don’t go anywhere? We don’t do anything fun? We just sit around thinking about a baby?”
Gianna didn’t say anything. She looked hurt.
“I’m sorry,” I mumbled, “but, you know . . .”
“It’s OK,” she said, rising. “Let’s go. We can have fun. You’re right. It’s not against the rules.”
We met our friends a few hours later. Sam and Annie were our age, not married, still in that pawing-each-other-at-every-moment stage. They brought beers over as soon as we arrived and banged them on the table.
“Let’s celebrate the end of a crappy week,” Sam said. “I worked my butt off.”
“Thanks, but I can’t drink,” Gianna said.
“Oh, right, sorry,” Annie said.
“No, no, don’t be sorry, you all go ahead.”
“You sure?” I said.
“Yes. It’s fine.”
So I drank with our friends. It felt good to be out. The festival had loud, energetic bands, and Sam and Annie danced the samba. Gianna said she was too tired, so we remained at the table, silently watching our friends wiggle and laugh. Finally, I got up to explore the row of food booths. I returned with large plates of barbecued beef, fried cod, and cheese bread.
“Oh, yes! Thank you!” Sam said, plopping down, sweaty from the dance floor. “I’m starving.”
“Me too,” said Annie.
We began gobbling it up, but Gianna left her plate alone.
“Eat something,” I said.
“I’m not really hungry.”
I slumped. “Really? Are you just gonna sit?”
Sam and Annie glanced at each other. They could see I had embarrassed my wife.
“It is delicious,” Annie offered.
Gianna nodded reluctantly and lopped some beef on her bread. She tried the fish as well. We made small talk for another hour, and Sam and Annie ordered more beers. Eventually, we caught a cab and headed home.
“Admit it,” I said, sitting next to her. “It was good to get out, right?”
She sighed. “I guess so. I’m sorry I’m so dull lately, Alfie.”
“And I’m sorry if I’m impatient.”
She smiled. “Well. You are impatient.”
“But you . . .” I took her hand. “Are never dull.”
We kissed gently, which should have been the end of that episode.
It wasn’t.
In the middle of the night, Gianna began throwing up.
“You OK?” I mumbled when she came back to bed.
“I thought I was done with morning sickness,” she said.
She groaned through the next few hours. I felt her forehead, which was hot. She said she had a migraine.
By sunrise, I was feeling it, too. I was sweaty and ran to the bathroom several times.
“I bet it was that food,” I said, emerging from the toilet. Gianna lay in bed with a cold rag on her head.
“My stomach really hurts,” she whined.
“Mine, too,” I said.
I later learned we both had food poisoning. But our consequences weren’t equal. Gianna’s abdominal pain grew worse. By evening, it was so bad, I insisted she go to the hospital. In the emergency room, she threw up again, and the first doctor who saw her, a young Vietnamese physician, immediately sought out a senior staffer. An older doctor came in, checked Gianna over, then said a few words which I didn’t understand.
Suddenly everyone was moving quickly and Gianna was being wheeled into an operating room, because the baby, they informed us, had no heartbeat.
✶
I will spare you the details of the miscarriage, Boss, except to say we entered the hospital as expectant parents and we left as something else, unexpectant, if that’s a word, not just of a child but, in time, of a certain happiness. We seemed to cross into a new, barren country, a gray place where dreams were mostly lost causes.
In the days that followed, Gianna was in shock. In the weeks that followed, she was in mourning. As the weeks turned to months, and she read about how food poisoning can sometimes lead to miscarriage, she got mad. And I became the target of her anger.
“Why did we go to that stupid festival? Why did you make me go?”
“I didn’t make you go!”
“You did! I told you I wanted to stay home! If I’d have stayed home . . .”
She didn’t finish. She just cried. And every subsequent time she brought this up, I was stung by the grief of unchangeable circumstances, which is not a feeling I’d known very often. My mother’s death. Wesley. And Yaya. Other than those, pretty much anything that hurt me in life, I had changed. Now, suddenly, with the worst thing that had ever happened between Gianna and me, I was powerless.
Did I think about jumping back to avoid that festival? Of course. But I knew the rules. Our baby had died, which meant no matter what I did, I couldn’t save it. It was going to happen, that day, that time, even if Gianna and I had sat inside a room with the doors locked. I couldn’t watch my wife go through that again.
I wanted to tell her this. To let her know that I would have used whatever power I had to undo things, but this was beyond both of us.
I couldn’t get this across without telling her everything. And it wouldn’t have changed the pain of it. A heaviness fell over our kitchen table, our couch, our bed. We drifted into resentment. When it came time to try again, at first I didn’t want to. Then she pulled away. Months later, when we both agreed to make the effort, our lovemaking felt more clinical than romantic.
Gianna did get pregnant eventually, twenty months after the first go-around. But she lost the baby again, this time after nine weeks. It happened in the middle of the night. I heard her crying in the bathroom. I got up, but the door was locked.
“Don’t come in here, Alfie,” she sobbed.
And sadly—despite how deep our love had been—that sentence became a theme. Don’t come in here. We locked each other out of our hearts. We spoke. We ate. We slept in the same bed. But a connection had been severed.
