Aftermath of Dreaming Page 14

  He looked at me blankly for a moment, then said, “I don’t eat bagels.”

  For a second, I understood. They were brand-new to me when I moved to Manhattan—biscuits or beignets being our breakfast fare. Then the oddness of his remark struck me. “It’s just bread,” I almost said but quickly realized that in a life so at the mercy of others, one would grab control wherever one could. I gave him a dollar from the ones I had folded and tucked in the hidden pocket of my running shorts, as I heard Ruth’s voice in my head saying, “They’ll just drink your money up.” But what did she know?

  Turning around at Seventy-second Street to head back uptown, I decided that I would do everything I could to see Andrew a lot before he left. I hated Lily Creed for getting to go with him. But maybe he’d get really sick of her there. And maybe we’d have sex a lot before he went, even though he seemed to keep avoiding us doing that, which I could not figure out. But maybe he’d change and we would. Tons of it. Tons of solidifying, unifying, glorifying sex that he’d think about nonstop while he was gone, so he’d come back to me, having forgotten all about Lily Creed, and we’d be together forever, in perpetuity. That’s what I decided had to happen.

  My hunger strike wasn’t intentional; I just didn’t want to eat. The late summer heat, I thought, was the reason, so I didn’t give it much thought. Until the fainting began. It happened the first time at work in the coat-check room, so that was easy to hide and not tell anyone, but then a week or so later, it happened again.

  I was downtown looking at arts supplies, and suddenly knew I had to get something in me—my skin felt cold and hot all at once, and my blood seemed to have turned to caffeine, so jangly and metallically I felt, so I went into the nearest deli. It was lunchtime and horrendously crowded around the salad bar and buffet, which had steaming trays of sticky sweet meats, vegetables that appeared too fresh to not have been processed in some way, shiny chunks of tofu, noodles swirling like snakes, and all of it revolting me.

  I was trying to select a drink, wavering between cold tomato juice, or going up front for a hot tea because the one female waiter at work, a blonde from Wisconsin, had told me that a hot beverage in the heat makes you feel better, something about aligning your internal/external body temperatures. I had thought when she said it that it was crazy Yankee logic, but maybe there was something to it and I should give it a try. But suddenly I felt my eyes and head do a back flip while my legs gave out straight in front of me.

  The next thing I knew a bike messenger from Brooklyn was encouraging orange juice on me through a straw, the wax-coated container sweating like me, as he kept saying how he had braced my fall. “Otherwise, that linoleum floor…”

  It was humiliating. I was relieved I wasn’t wearing a short skirt, but I felt dirty from being on that floor and shaky from the experience of my legs involuntarily not supporting me. When I was able to make my way out, the heavy woman behind the cash register stared at me stonily as if I were a junkie or something. As I hailed a cab, which would cost the earth to take me all the way home to West 109th, because I didn’t have the energy for the subway, I realized that I had unconsciously formulated the idea in my mind that if I didn’t eat, Andrew would stay. Jesus, that’s so teenaged, I thought. Then with a shock I realized that at eighteen, I still was.

  It was impossible not to tell Carrie: she was home, my bath in the middle of the afternoon was out of the norm, and a bruise had developed on the side of my leg where the corner of a milk crate had cut into it, so I told her, but left out the reason for it.

  A few nights later, I came home from a party that Lydia had thrown—all of us crammed into the small one-bedroom apartment that she shared on the Upper East Side, drinking vodka greyhounds and Tom Collins—and was greeted by Carrie as soon as I opened the front door, as if she had been waiting for me or something.

  “Andrew called,” Carrie announced as I entered our apartment, stumbling a bit over the door’s burglar bar, a long steel rod that when propped against the door and locked into place on the floor supposedly prevented people from breaking in, but I found it wildly unsettling.

  “What?” It was late, I was drunk, and I couldn’t believe she had listened to my answering machine while a message was being left on it.

  “Andrew called, and he’s very upset about you fainting.” Carrie was speaking her words as if they were lines in a drawing room play that she happened to be quite brilliant in. I remembered she had taught high school drama in Mississippi for three years before ditching that and moving here.

  The greyhounds were running through my brain and were not helping me make sense of what she was saying. Had I slipped up and said something about the deli incident to Andrew that he only now on a phone message was addressing?

  “We had a good long talk all about it.”

  “Oh, my God, Carrie, you talked to him?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. Maybe she had also thrown out all my clothes during her rampage into my life.

  “Yvette, I’m sorry,” she said, sounding not a bit in the least. “Your phone rang, I was in the kitchen, and this automatic response just kicked in—I swear I need to quit my job—so I picked it up and—oops!—it was him.”

  “Oh, Jesus, Carrie. Are you kidding me?” I tried to remember how much I had told Andrew about Carrie on that first marathon phone call we had had when most, if not all, of the important relationships of my life were uncovered and examined. “What did he say? What did you say? Fuck, Carrie, you told him about the fainting?” I wanted to kill her, but she was looking so unguilty and giddy.

  “And thank God I did. We had a nice long talk about it—he’s very concerned about you and was glad I told him. He asked me what you eat, that took all of two seconds to describe. ‘She won’t listen to me,’ I told him. ‘I know,’ he said. ‘I’ll have a talk with her when she gets home.’ God, he was just so nice and everything on the phone. Solicitous and polite. I mean, Andrew Madden, just like in his films, but talking to me.” She practically pirouetted and leapt.

  It reminded me of how Suzanne used to always play with my dolls instead of hers when we were small. As Carrie prattled on, saying the same stuff two or three times, she appeared so thoroughly resolute in the righteousness of her deed that a rebuttal was pointless. And Andrew was worried about me, concerned enough to talk to my roommate whom he hadn’t even met, only knew about because of what I’d told him. It made me feel floaty and cozy, as though he had taken up residence inside my body.

  Andrew wanted to see me. He wasn’t happy about what Carrie had told him, but I was happy that he told me to come to his hotel room that night after work. It had been weeks since I’d had lunch with him and his actor friend, though Andrew and I talked tons of times each day. He’d call first thing every morning; I’d call later on, speaking first to the operator whose voice I now knew and tried to be friendly to, but she acted each time as if our communication were brand-new.

  “How are you?” he’d immediately say on the phone if people were in the room, skipping the “Hi,” that short sound he managed to brand all his own. Then after my answer, “Where are you?” It was giving my coordinates to him—he who could better read the map—the longitude and latitude of my emotions and self, fixed on a point, in relation to all the other marks of how and where I’d been. He was my navigational system, no longer did I need to rely on the distant North Star.

  Andrew was sitting on the yellow silk couch, and I was perched on the coffee table facing him with my legs between the open spread of his and my chin once again in his hand. He picked up my hands, studying each of my nails. I was hoping he would drop the doctor routine and get romantic so we could get in bed, when he said, “I bet you’re anemic.”

  I thought it was much simpler than that—I needed to eat.

  “You vegetarians never get enough iron or protein. I want you to see a doctor this week.”

  “Okay.” I had no intention of spending money on that. I hadn’t opted for health insurance at work, and I could j
ust as easily tell myself what a doctor would say—take iron and eat three meals a day.

  I was ready for this topic to end, so I leaned forward to kiss him, my hands rubbing his legs down, around, and inside, and he started to move his lips toward me, but broke away.

  “I want to show you something.” He went into the bedroom and came back with a folder of large, glossy pictures, which he spread out on the coffee table next to me. I moved to the couch so I could see. “This is where I’ll be.”

  It was wonderful and horrible to see the locale that would possess him. I pictured him as he was now—barefoot, black T-shirt and jeans, comfortable in his hotel-living mode—superimposed on each photo. I wanted his easily accessible phone to be going, too.

  “It’s beautiful. How long will you be?”

  “I don’t know, honey.” Our heads were bent gazing at the landscapes, surely opposing responses to them in our heads.

  “Are you excited to go?” I couldn’t look at him when I said it. I wanted to be happy for him, but knew my voice would break if I saw his eyes, knowing they’d be leaving.

  “Yeah.” He tested the word. “More ready than excited.” Then he looked at me seriously and touching his finger to my nose said, “I’m excited about your show.”

  “I wish you were gonna be here for it.”

  “I know, honey, but it’s going to be great—you big fucking art star.” And he grinned at me, drawing me into him, my face in his chest, my arms around his back.

  “While you’re there,” I said, the words muffled a bit by his soft T-shirt. “Will you think about me?”

  “Will you think about me?”

  I looked up into his eyes. “Every hour every day.”

  “Good.” He kissed the top of my forehead, seeming to end the conversation.

  “But are you gonna think about me?” My words held down a wail. With all the things he’d have to do in that distant land and so many people needing him, was there still going to be room in his mind for me?

  “Will you, Andrew?”

  “Yes, Yvette, I’ll think about you.” He kissed me on the lips, quick, soft, and sweet, then turned his hands into fists, playfully swatting me while I moved and turned to regain our embrace.

  The phone rang. It was past eleven on a Monday night, and the hotel had been slumbering when I walked in at ten, the beguiling stillness of Central Park extending across the street into the lobby.

  Andrew listened on the receiver and said, “Send her up.”

  “Who’s that?” I suddenly worried it was Lily; that he’d forgotten we shouldn’t meet.

  “A friend of mine. You’ll like her; you’ll see.”

  The elevator his friend took apparently was an express because the ones I took to Andrew’s suite seemed to mosey along. Within seconds it seemed, there was a knock at the door.

  He was in the foyer with her far too long. I looked at the pictures again. I killed some time hating the clothes I had on. I thought about going to the window to get a better look at the view, but decided I didn’t want to give up the couch—Andrew most likely would sit on it, and I wanted to be closer to him than she would be.

  Finally, they walked in. Andrew’s hand was on the small of her back. I made myself notice it, this same gesture he used with me, to see it and decide it meant nothing about us that he was using it with her. A vision of being dropped off at school by my father on days I’d missed the bus suddenly hit me. Him being in an environment I wasn’t used to seeing him in made his withdrawal from me all the more excruciating, so I could barely tolerate watching his Cadillac pull away. Sitting on Andrew’s couch and seeing his hand on this other girl’s back was like standing under the school’s portico, needing to run to class, but forcing myself to watch my father’s car recede.

  She sat in an armchair. Andrew sat in the opposite one to the left of me, facing her. All we needed was a fourth for a game of bridge. One sweep of his hand cleared the pictures off the coffee table, then he slid them into their folder, and put it down on the floor. At least she didn’t get that part of him.

  Her name was Susie. Or Suzy, I guess. She was a writer, Andrew didn’t say what kind, but I made a mental note to dislike anything written by someone with that first name, since I’d probably never know her last. She clearly was years older than me, six or seven at least, and was extremely pretty. When Andrew told her that she was, as I was certain he did, she probably took it as her due. There was an ease to that blessing gracing her face, uncomplicated to enjoy like hot chocolate.

  I had no idea what we were doing. Why was she here and couldn’t she now leave? I would just wait her out and reap my reward in Andrew’s bed. Surely soon he would make her leave.

  Andrew was telling her all about me—my art, at least—including the big fucking art star part, which I found equally embarrassing and a relief, with a bit of a “Ha-ha, he loves me” thrown in. Sitting serenely in her chair as she listened to him, she appeared powerful, yet submissive, like an employee the boss really needs.

  “Honey.” Andrew had gotten up and was reaching his hand out to me. Thank God, he’s finally making her leave.

  “I’ll walk you down,” he said.

  My face dropped as I stood up. Andrew took my hand, and turned us toward the hallway to the front door. It was the opposite of that terrible dream where I need to get away, but can’t move—I wanted to stay, but was forced to leave.

  “Okay, well, nice to meet you,” I said to her, instantly hating that I was so automatically polite. Couldn’t manners have sensors on them—bells that would jangle to prevent them from being blurted out when I didn’t want them?

  She simply smiled back. A hot-chocolate milk-white-teeth smile. I hated her for it.

  Andrew moved me along, and his foyer disappeared past us, but waiting for the elevator made us stand still. He started kissing my cheeks and hands, but I pushed him back, turning away. “Stop it.”

  “Are you mad?” The elevator opened while he waited for my response. “Sweet-y-vette, are you mad at me?” He tried to kiss me again, as the doors shut.

  “Quit it. What is your problem, haven’t I told you no?”

  He gave me a look that was blankly innocent and unassailable, like a gentleman in a bad fix. “What did you think was going to happen when you came over here?”

  “What did I think?”

  He nodded, glad I was seeing his point.

  “What did I think?” This time my voice was higher and my stomach got involved, forming the sounds with its loud emptiness. The elevator opened into the lobby which held a radiant hush and uniformed employees.

  “I thought you loved me.” I knew they could hear me clear out to the street; I screamed it.

  Andrew blanched before turning red as the employees bristled to life while in their stand-still mode.

  “Come on, we’re getting you a cab.” He was walking next to me, forcing me along, and my attempts to get away from him were contained and redirected by one of his hands on each of my arms.

  “No,” I shouted. “I can’t afford one, and they won’t take one of your stupid hundred-dollar bills anyway.”

  All of the employees stared when they heard that, then quickly looked away. Andrew stopped us at the front desk, pulling me close into him and holding me tight with his left hand, while his right reached into his pocket.

  “Could you break this into small bills, please?” His words were lovely, efficient, and calm. The desk clerk hurried to do so without looking up. It felt like a very cordial bank robbery.

  “Thank you.” Andrew put all of the money into my palm. “And we need a cab.”

  Every employee leapt forward, moving through the revolving door in groups, running to the curb.

  “I’ll call you in the morning, Yvette,” Andrew said, as we emerged from the revolving door.

  “For what?”

  “What?” Andrew either didn’t hear me or was very confused.

  “What are you gonna call me for?” We were standing
in the carpeted sidewalk area, which was replete with hotel help waving down cabs or looking surreptitiously at us. “I don’t understand what you want me for; you don’t let me give you a goddamn thing.” I turned into him and began hitting his chest. He pulled me closer, trying to disguise it as a hug, when a cab pulled up. A line of employees made a corridor to its door for us.

  “Into the cab, there you go,” Andrew said, while three employees held open the door. “Take her straight home,” he said to the driver. “Don’t let her go anywhere else.”

  “I’ll call you tomorrow,” he said, and leaned down to give me a kiss on the forehead. I refused to look at him, and when he shut the door, the cab jerked from the curb. A few buildings away, I sneaked a look over my shoulder, but Andrew and the many employees were already gone.

  The next morning, when I picked up the phone, the first thing I heard was, “Thanks to you, I got to sleep early last night.”

  Andrew had said it sweetly, but I still wasn’t sure. “What does that mean?”

  “It means I sent Suzy home is what it means, sweet-y-vette.”

  “Oh.” I was thrilled, but didn’t want to show it.

  Then he told me that he had people waiting for him in his living room, so call him back in an hour or two, and did I love him?

  “Yes, Andrew, I love you.”

  I rolled out of bed, and pulled on some clothes to go for a run. So I had met one of the other ones—the ones Carrie had assured me existed, and that I had been pretending did not. But suddenly I realized that Suzy didn’t matter—none of them did. They were everyone and no one to him. Had nothing to do with me and him. What I meant to him. What I was to him. As I ran through Riverside Park, I realized that even Lily Creed didn’t matter. He was with Lily, but still needed me. If what he had with her had been able to fill that space in him, then it wouldn’t have been empty and waiting to strongly pull me in when our eyes met at the restaurant, ready for me to fill it for him. Fill it without having sex. Even though we did have sex that first time, it was clearly an aberration. The other women were a backdrop to my relationship with him, not unlike the trees and grass I was running past. My jealousy of them evaporated like the late summer heat finally had.