Beauty Page 13

  “They need you in the lab,” I nodded.

  “Because I’m his father,” Jeff asserted.

  True to his word, Jeff stepped into the role. The apartment itself reflects exactly how much Jeff has changed by having a child with TBI. The rooms themselves are minimalist in style—everything white, everything rectangular—but the countertops, which, in the past Jeff would have insisted be kept clear, are now crowded with medications, supplements, and kitchen appliances, including a juicer, blender, panini press, toaster oven, microwave, and, of course, a top-of-the-line, restaurant-grade cappuccino maker. I set my tea down at the kitchen table, take the containers of Korean food from the bag, and set three places at the table in case Alex wakes up. The smell of Korean beef makes me hungry.

  There’s the muffled sound of Jeff’s voice in the other room. It’s already 7:40 PM. I have work tomorrow. I crack a set of disposable chopsticks, but it breaks unevenly, causing one to be much shorter than the other. No matter—they still work. I help myself to one of the bibimbaps. Oh… A perfect mix of rice, crunchy bean sprouts, sweet sesame oil, and spicy kimchee. It was worth the trip. Almost.

  Pressed up against the wall behind my chair is a folded massage table, on which Alex now receives cranial sacral massage three times a week. Initially, we pursued only conventional medical treatments like PT, OT, vision, speech, cognitive therapy. But after many months and thousands of treatments without any major improvements, Alex showed indications of “therapy fatigue.” Desperate, Jeff decided to try alternative therapies. Three months ago, the first time Alex received cranial sacral massage, he fell asleep during the treatment and woke feeling pain-free. The cumulative effect seems to have helped Alex’s chronic, daily migraine. We were lucky; the injury Alex sustained was mild to moderate. While he still gets irritable and is easily fatigued, interventions like HBOT—Hyperbaric Oxygen Treatment—have helped to improve his memory. He no longer suffers from vertigo, and recently he concentrates well enough to have a tutor. Alex no longer plays video games, which cause blinding headaches, but he enjoys lying in his darkened room, listening to all kinds of books on tape.

  I take up a small cube of lotus kim chee, and pop it into my mouth.

  Jeff finally reappears. “What a day,” he mutters, combing his hair back with his fingers.

  I glance at Alex in the other room. He could use the calories. Even lying beneath a blanket, he seems more gaunt, his edges more sharp. He lost weight after the accident. No surprise, but what’s concerning is his overall growth rate. It never bounced back. “Should we wake him?” I ask.

  Jeff shakes his head. “He started to get a migraine. Hopefully, he’ll sleep it off.”

  “How did the therapy go?” I ask.

  “It was interesting. Alex said it helped, but when I asked how, he couldn’t articulate.” Devoid of any facial expression that suggests any kind of hope or excitement, Jeff spoons his food onto his plate and starts to eat. I figure as hopeful as he may be, there’s a part of him that’s putting up a self-protective wall. Many therapies seem promising at first, but the results don’t last. Jeff offers an explanation of Tomatis Listening Therapy. As usual, he’s obviously done a lot of research. The therapy was originally developed to rehabilitate opera singers who suffered some kind of trauma and then lost their ability to sing.

  “Trauma, as in, to the head?” I ask, pausing mid bite. Now this is worth listening to.

  “Correct.” Jeff nods and feeds a piece of steak into his mouth.

  “It definitely sounds worth trying.”

  “I’m glad you think so—” He pauses. “I would feel sorry if we didn’t at least try—”

  I feel something disagreeable about to transpire, even before he mutters another word.

  “The company needs me now,” he continues. “We postponed going corporate because of the accident, but now I need to get back…”

  His lips move, and while I can hear everything he says as he goes on and on, the words bounce off me.

  “A critical juncture” … “Going public” … “It’s time to take the IPO plunge”… “Strong management and accounting teams”…. “successful transition”… “Now or never”….

  All last year, I think. Interning at that design company way out in Connecticut. Having to take out a loan for a car. And for what? Grunt work that any high school dropout could manage?

  “A nurse can handle it,” I say.

  “Who will get him to and from all the appointments?” Jeff points out. “HBOT is down in the financial district. Listening isn’t even in the city.”

  “Isn’t that why you have a driver?” I ask. “So you don’t have to drive?”

  “He’s finally getting on track, Amy. We can’t drop the ball now.”

  Drop the ball. Finally, I have a job. It doesn’t pay well, but it’s a start. Only, now, this.

  “I’ve done everything,” he says. “I got him back on track, and he’s faring so much better.”

  It’s true. Jeff has done everything for Alex. The only time Jeff’s not with him is Monday mornings when he needs to be at the office for staff meetings. Aside from the Met Gala, which he attended simply because he’s now a board trustee, Jeff no longer attends industry events or charity fundraisers. According to Alex, Jeff’s not even involved with other women. What’s incredible about it all is that instead of disappearing into oblivion like most popular figures who shy away from society, Jeff’s sudden and enigmatic disappearance produced the opposite effect: it transformed him into a transcendent, almost mythical figure.

  “The company needs me now,” he says. “I need to see this transition to fruition.”

  Jeff the savior. Then, I’m wondering: What is it that makes some people disappear while others become all the more sublime? Why can’t he just sink like the rest of us?

  Stop, I tell myself. He deserves it. It’s true. He does. Unlike me, he changed his entire life to accommodate Alex’s needs. The doctor, PT, OT, HBOT, listening, massage. Life revolves around the appointments. Jeff had said no one would ever take Alex from him; and, in fact, he proved his commitment—and devotion—as a father.

  What have I proved? I tried to rebuild my life, “allowing” Jeff to take full responsibility for Alex. How selfish is that?

  “It’s your turn,” he tells me now.

  “But, my job.” He must know I need the money.

  “I’ve thought about it and I have an idea.” He tells me his plan to give me a lump sum of money to pay off my debt for the car. Then he’ll pay me a “salary” every month—he’ll match what I’m making at Monarch.

  “And Alex will be back in school soon,” he says, using his chopsticks to place a thin slice of barbecued steak over my rice. “So you’ll have the whole morning, the whole day, really, until three. Potentially, you could even work part-time.”

  I swallow. There’s no way Maggie, my boss, will keep me part-time. I don’t have the tenacity to even ask.

  “I know this is difficult for you, but if the company doesn’t survive this transition, well, then what are we going to do? How would we take care of Alex? Where would we get health insurance? How would we pay for all these therapies? I’m burning through money like there’s a genie in a jar, but at some point I’ve got to push ahead or we need to cut back. Way back.”

  Jeff’s thought out his argument. He knows I can’t say anything because he’s right. It’s my turn. He handled Alex’s care when it was the most critical—and the most difficult. All the guilt I’ve suppressed floods back to me. As his mother, I should have been there. I should have helped more. And now Jeff is generously making it possible. Who wouldn’t want such an arrangement?

  I stare into my plate and push the steak to the edge. The bibimbap comes with a fried egg over a bed of rice, minced vegetables, and shredded beef. I poke the yolk until it bleeds. There it is. My life diced into segments, smothered by t
he very splooge of life, resulting in a mishmash of total nothingness.

  “What do you think?” Jeff asks.

  I think behind that stony facade, you are a cold, calculating asshole.

  “It’s great,” I say, forcing a smile. “Thanks.”

  “No problem. It’ll be so good for Alex to spend more time with you.”

  “Who is he to suggest I don’t see enough of my own son?” I rant, the next evening at Ma’s and Georgie’s. “That mother fucking asshole!” I pace between kitchen and living area. “He thought out every fucking angle. The whole fucking thing!”

  “Enough,” Ma snaps, banging chopsticks down on the porcelain spoon holder. She’s in the kitchen, cooking tea eggs. “What a mouth you have,” she gasps, crossing her arms. “Fucking, fucking.”

  “But it’s true. I mean, what could I say, right? He’s my son, right? Now, it’s my turn, right?”

  “It is!”

  She may as well have smacked me across the face.

  “He’s your son,” she says. “What’s more important, uh?”

  “Well, I’m your daughter. That didn’t stop you from flying off to Hong Kong for half a year.”

  “I brought Daddy back, you forgot?” she says, her face red. “You have a funny memory. When Daddy went back again, did I leave? Ha. No, I stayed here with you. You forgot?”

  So that’s what this is about. She blames me. Ever since Dad left, Ma’s been alone. She has a boyfriend here and there, mostly divorced men who wine and dine her, but nothing that actually sticks. Ma gave up her life because of her kid; now it is my turn to suffer.

  I recall a moment in the hospital when Alex was still in surgery. I swore to myself, and God, that if Alex was okay, I would give up my silly antics and desires. I would dedicate my life to taking care of him.

  “Your own son,” Ma mutters. “You don’t feel shame?”

  It’s like air gets sucked out of the room and I’m going to suffocate. I grab my phone from my purse and text my boyfriend, William. “Okay if I stay over tonight?” I type. I’ve been staying at his place a lot lately; it’s an easy 35 minute drive up the west side highway to Hastings where he lives. William has a son two years younger than Alex. Not exactly romantic to have a nine-year-old around all the time, but he’s very little for his age, and while I would never admit this to anyone, he’s sweet and easy to be around in a way Alex never was. William and I had a short affair when Alex was two. We bumped into each other again a couple years ago, and even though he and I have been monogamous ever since my split with Jeff last year, William still wants to do everything “just the two of us.” It’s stifling at times. I try to sympathize, considering the roller coaster on-again, off-again relationship he had with Toby’s drug-addict mother, which he’s told me all about. She up and disappeared when Toby was six without so much as a goodbye. He came home from school one day and no one was home to let him in. I can’t help but feel sorry for William. He’s not the Daddy type, and yet, he has had to contend with a boy who suffers from night terrors and is prone to accidental falls; a couple weeks ago, he broke an arm while playing football with William in the backyard.

  “Sure,” William immediately texts back. “Come on over.”

  Then I remember the right tail light of my car is out. No way I can drive like that or I’ll get a ticket. What luck. I text back, letting him know, and William answers that he can drive in to pick me up.

  I texted back to say he was sweet, but not to bother. I was fine, and I’d see him this weekend. He texted back that it wasn’t a bother and he could really use a hug. He’d had a tough day. Plus, he’d already gotten a sitter to watch Toby.

  I indicate he should pick me up at Children’s hospital across from Georgie’s apartment and continue packing, so desperate to get away from Ma that I break a nail rushing to unzip the bag.

  “Take the money,” Ma says, hovering now. “He owes you.”

  “I don’t want Jeff’s money,” I say, searching my purse for a nail file.

  “You stupid girl,” she says, “you never learn.”

  “Jeff doesn’t get to be the hero. Not here. Not now.”

  “Who is saying ‘hero, hero?’ That’s your money, stupid. It’s, how should you say, uh? Your ali-mony. Maybe only little bit, but something.”

  “I didn’t need it before, and I don’t need it now. And stop calling me stupid.”

  “So stupid. I don’t get to see my own grandson. Why? Because you can’t afford a home for your own son. And you can say don’t need, don’t need?”

  If I could slit my wrists in front of her—if I had a knife in my hand right now—I would do it just out of spite.

  I chuck my phone into my purse, then head into the bathroom for my toiletry bag.

  “Where you going?” Ma stands outside the bathroom. “You going to see that…that William?”

  “It’s ‘William’,” I say. “Not that William. Just William.”

  “I don’t like him.”

  “You’ve never met him.”

  “I don’t need to.” She tries to block me from moving past her into the living area. “Every time you sleep in that man’s bed you are less and less. You have no value.”

  “Just stop, okay? I know it’s hard to believe but we actually graduated from the Middle Ages. Women actually vote in this country.”

  “For what, uh? To open their legs? To sign prenup? To get divorced with nothing like a beggar on the streets? Who you are, mh?”

  I stuff a pair of pumps into airplane socks and pack them into the overnight bag along with a clean bra and panties. Just to get her goat, I dig out a silk blue teddy.

  “Fine, ha che va dong,” she says, accusing me of not appreciating her good intentions. “You don’t want to listen. See how things turn out. How lonely.”

  Something inside me snaps. I stare her straight in the eye. “Lonely like you?”

  Ma’s hand whips back, then starts to swing at my face. As if in slow motion, I reach up and catch her by the wrist. I squeeze, the anger inside me causing her arm to tremble. “Don’t you ever hit me again,” I say.

  She startles, registering the sudden shift in power. I release her with a slight shove, just enough to make her retreat a couple steps. She holds her wrist. Massages it.

  I grab the overnight bag and my purse, then step into my shoes by the front door. Without another word, without even looking at Ma, I head out the door.

  The rain comes down like ice picks. I’m standing in the covered area outside Children’s Hospital, where, during the day, the valet meets visitors pulling into the semi-circular driveway. It’s close to midnight now. The wind moves through me as if my bones are hollow. My teeth chatter. I refuse to step inside the empty lobby. Maybe it’s the experience with Alex. Something about desolate hospitals, especially at night, spooks me. But another blast of cold, this one as vast and dispassionate as space, and I’m racing to get inside. My lungs burn so badly, I’m choking. Once I’m behind the seven-foot panels of glass wall, I hug myself and rub the shivers from my body. I may be safe from the elements outside, but my mind darts to dark, cold places. There’s no protective guard to shield me from myself. All the things I should have done. All the ways I’ve failed. Jeff and Ma are right. I’m a terrible mother.

  A car honks. It’s William. He pulls into the driveway. He’s wearing a blue wool cap and a down jacket. I wave and run outside. The wind whips hair across my face. By the time I’m settled in the passenger seat, my left eyeball feels as if there’s hair frozen to it.

  I give him a quick peck on the lips, then flip down the sun visor. The light goes on, and I finger strands of hair from my lashes.

  “Okay,” he mutters. The car jerks into drive.

  “Something wrong?” I ask, as he turns down the street toward the West Side Highway.

  “No.” He fidgets with the heat
, turning it higher, which immediately fogs the front windshield. He switches on the defrost. Cold air blows right at our faces.

  “Sure?” I ask, shivering again.

  “Positive.” He flashes a big smile, returning his attention to the road.

  I recount my exchange with Jeff yesterday and the argument I had with Ma tonight. “She actually agreed with him,” I say.

  “Don’t let her get to you.”

  “How am I supposed to do that?”

  He shrugs. We pass the entrance to the G.W. Bridge, on the West Side Highway. The Hudson is a wall of blackness.

  I’ve got nothing. I am nothing.

  We approach the toll. He slows as we move through the booth, then picks up speed on the other side. I set my hand on his thigh. He removes his right hand from the wheel and places it over mine. We follow the sinuous road that cuts through Riverdale. William slows with traffic, driving no faster than 35 miles an hour. With the drop in temperature, rain has turned to sleet. As clear as the road may look, it’s probably covered with black ice. Pellets of ice ping off the windshield and car rooftop. The wipers drag across the dry glass, making a sluggish thumping sound. William shuts them off.

  “I’m sorry I dragged you out in this,” I say.

  “Don’t be,” he says, taking my hand again.

  I have to tell my boss I’m resigning. She’s going to think I’m crazy. Then she’s going to be pissed she wasted so much time and energy training me. What a perfect way to burn a bridge. “You’ll never get another job in this industry again,” she’ll say.

  “Why are you crying?” he asks.

  “I fucked up. I fucked up my whole life.”

  “That’s not true.”

  “It couldn’t be more true.” I tell him about Jeff’s “salary,” which is supposed to compensate for the possibility of an actual career. “I’m 38 years old. What have I got? I’m living with my mom and sister, sleeping on their couch, and I’ve got a grand total of $300 in the bank.”

  William exits the highway and turns left at the light.