A Brief Chapter in My Impossible Life (16 page)

NINETEEN

Naturally, the first thing I do is call Cleo. It’s too late to call Zack. It’s too late to call Cleo, but this is an emergency. I read her the message. She says she doesn’t get it, and then I remind her of my exchange with him, which I had told her word for word. Cleo says, “Oh, my God. He was totally calling to ask you out.” And then I tell her about my dinner with Rivka, and she says, “What a night you’re having.”

We hang up, and I spend what’s left of the night tossing and turning and not getting one minute of sleep. I’m sad about Rivka. I’m excited about Zack. I don’t know which emotion to stick with—they keep crashing into each other all night long.

So, as you can imagine, I’m not looking my best in the morning. The day goes by in a blur, and I don’t mean it goes by quickly. It’s painfully slow. Nothing is in focus for me except the conversation that hasn’t taken place yet. I run through several variations, including one where I completely misunderstand the meaning of his message and make a total fool out of myself.

Cleo had Spanish class with Zack third period. At lunch she confirms that he’s here today, and then she swears that she didn’t say a thing to him and that she didn’t give him any kind of knowing or teasing look, and I have no choice but to believe her. James has abandoned his usual role of the skeptic and gets all gushy and excited for me because this is the new James. The post-Patrick’s-surprise-visit James is an undying romantic.

When the final bell rings and I head for the
Gazette
office, my heart is pounding so loudly in my chest that I’m certain everyone walking by me in the hallway can hear it. I imagine that everyone is staring at me, knowing that I’m on my way to see what this message from Zack is all about. As you can see, the night of no sleep has left me a bit delirious.

And there he is, with a pencil behind his ear, sitting with his camouflage-high-topped feet up on the conference table. He doesn’t see me come in. He’s talking with Amy Flannigan and Marcel. I take a seat at the far end of the table, which is quickly filling up with the other staffers. Someone drops a book on the floor, and Zack looks up. Our eyes meet, and he gives me the sweetest smile and then a little wave with his fingers. I start to mouth that I’m sorry I didn’t call him back, but his look says,
What are you talking about?
I hold up my hand to my ear to indicate a telephone. He gives a nod and a wave as if to say,
Don’t worry about it.

Marcel starts the meeting.

I get assigned a profile of two Russian exchange students. Or maybe it’s about two students who are going on an exchange program to Russia. I’m not really paying attention. The meeting finally wraps up, and everyone is hanging around chatting. I take a long time to pack up my notebook because Zack is still talking to Amy and Marcel, and I wait for a few minutes, but then I start to feel pathetic, so I throw my backpack over my shoulder and leave.

Zack comes after me in the hall.

“Wait up.”

“Sorry. It looked like you were in the middle of something. Anyway,” I say, “I just wanted to apologize for not calling you back last night. I didn’t get home until late.”

Oh, God. He’s wearing this gray sweater, and it makes his eyes look amazing, and I think it would feel really soft to the touch, but don’t worry—I have enough of a grip on things to know that I need to keep my hands to myself.

“That’s okay. I just wanted to know how James’s birthday party was.”

That’s it? That’s all he wanted to know? He just wanted to know about James’s birthday party? I’m such a fool. Why did I have to call Cleo? Why did I have to talk about it with James over lunch? Why did I have to make such a big deal out of one phone call? One stupid message?

“It was great.”

“Did you have the eggplant parmesan?”

“No. I had the linguini with mushrooms. Sorry.”

“You mean linguini con funghi?”

“I thought you took Spanish.”

“I do. But I also dabble in Italian.” He shifts his weight and looks past me down the hallway. Then he looks the other way. Is he waiting for someone? He looks back at me. “So what do you think about trying out the eggplant parmesan this Saturday night?”

Here comes that huge grin of mine again. I can’t stop it. I actually put my hands up and cover my heart as if I have to hold it there, as if it might jump right out of my chest.

“I’d love to.”

“Good.”

He smiles, and I smile back. In fact, I smile all the way home.

I have a date with Zack. I have a date. With Zack. Me. Simone. Simone has a date with Zack. This Saturday night for eggplant parmesan. At Il Bacio. Okay. Please remember something. Remember that this has never happened to me before. Remember that I’ve only kissed three boys, one during a stupid game and the other two at parties involving alcohol, and I puked after the most recent of these experiences. I’ve never stood face to face with a boy in the full light of day (or, more accurately, in the full fluorescent light of the school hallway) and had a conversation in which it becomes obvious that we both really like each other. I’m sixteen years and nine months old and I’ve never been asked on a date. I’ve never gone on a date. Now do you understand why I’m acting like such a freak?

I get home from school and call Cleo and James. Then I call Rivka.

“See?” she says. “I told you, you don’t repel him.”

“Is this your version of ‘Any boy would be lucky to date you, blah blah blah’?”

“I suppose it is. So, what are you going to wear?”

“I can’t even think about it yet. All I know is that I’m definitely going to wear that lipstick you gave me.”

“Good call.”

“So I’ll give you a ring Sunday morning. After the big night.”

There’s a pause.

“I won’t be here, Simone. I have to check into Beth Israel tomorrow for a few days. I won’t get out until Monday. But you can reach me there.”

“I can call you there?”

“Of course you can. It isn’t jail. It’s just the hospital for more testing.”

“You have to spend the weekend in the hospital?”

“Yeah. It’s okay, though. They have cable, unlike my backwoods house.”

“Can I come visit?”

“It sounds like you have a lot going on this weekend already.”

“Not tomorrow night. I’ll bring dinner. Can you eat?”

“I can try.”

Once again, as you can probably imagine, Mom and Dad put up no resistance to my taking the car into the city on Friday night. Dad even spends the afternoon making dinner for Rivka and me, which he packs in a picnic basket with real plates and silverware. Roast chicken with rosemary sweet potatoes and creamed spinach. I call this bakery I love that’s halfway between here and the city to find out if they make challah. They do. I ask them to hold two for me. I take some candles and two small candlesticks, and I coax Dad into letting me bring a bottle of wine. I figure that being in the hospital doesn’t mean Rivka should have to miss out on Shabbat.

All the traffic is moving in the opposite direction. This makes no sense to me. I don’t understand why people want to get out of the city. If I had my choice, I’d spend not just my weekends but my whole life in the city. Why would you go away from the place with all the action and vitality on the few days of the week when you actually have time to enjoy all the action and vitality? There must be some good answer, because all roads leading out of Boston are bumper-to-bumper, and I’m flying in toward the city center.

I park in the underground maze of the parking lot. Purple level. Section C. As I grab the picnic basket and put on my sweatshirt, I feel like Little Red Riding Hood skipping off into the woods, except unlike Little Red, I know the danger that lurks in the forest.

It isn’t as bad as I imagined. She has an IV in and a few of those round plastic things on her chest connecting her through wires to some kind of machine, but it beeps in a calm and not terribly urgent manner.
Beep
…
beep
…
beep
. There are no tubes in her nose. Nothing over her mouth. She has her bed propped up, and she’s watching television.

She smiles when I walk in, and shuts off the TV.

“Thank God you’re here. I was about to get sucked into this idiotic reality show. I don’t know if I could have lived with myself if I’d seen it through the whole hour.”

“Glad I could be of service,” I say. I hold up the picnic basket. “Hungry?”

I wheel the end table over from the other side of the bed and spread out our dinner. I ask the nurse if she can score us another table, and she brings in a tray on wheels. On this I place the candles and the challah, and I open the wine and fill a plastic cup with it.

“Oooh. Contraband,” says Rivka.

“The wine or the candles?”

“Both, I’m sure. But I don’t think anyone will give us a hard time. It’s one of the benefits of terminal illness. You can get away with anything.”

Terminal. The word echoes in my head. It lodges in my throat. It clamps itself around my heart.
Terminal: fatal, deadly, incurable
.

I take one of the cloth napkins Dad packed and use it to cover the challah. I hand Rivka a book of matches. She grabs my hand and then strokes my arm.

“This is wonderful. Thank you.”

She tries to light the match, but the IV seems to be giving her some trouble, so I take care of it. I take a pitcher of water and help her wash her hands. We do the blessings over the candles and then the wine and the bread. I move closer and she puts her hands on my head, her hands with their trailing wires, and she says a blessing over me even though I don’t really think I’m the one in need of prayer right now.

I remember her house and how warm and cozy it was on Shabbat. I remember how the candles illuminated the room. The sound of the wind in the trees. The smell of the sea. Things couldn’t be more different here tonight. The room is an unpleasant lime green. The lights are too bright. The sounds are of machines and carts being wheeled down the halls and muffled conversations behind closed doors. The smell is antiseptic. But you would never know that anything was different if you looked only at Rivka’s face. She wears the same blissful look she wore when we celebrated Shabbat at her home.

I’m happy to see that she eats heartily. We talk and we laugh, and for brief interludes I manage to forget where we are and why. It starts to get late, and she’s tired and I have to make the drive home, so I pack up my basket and dump the rest of the wine (that was part of the deal I struck with Dad). I say good night to Rivka and find my way back to purple level, section C, and I go home.

On Saturday I have my scheduled wardrobe consultation with Cleo two hours before Zack is due to pick me up. She comes over with a suitcase of clothes. I guess this shows what kind of faith she has in my closet. We settle on a pair of jeans with a gray scoop-neck shirt of Cleo’s with the Cleo signature cling and a long black cardigan sweater with a belt that Cleo firmly tells me I am
not
to tie shut. I wear black shoes with a very small heel because I’ve taken notice that Zack has only about two inches on me. I wear the lipstick Rivka gave me.

“I can’t believe little Simone is all grown up and going on a date,” Cleo says as she studies her handiwork.

“It must be strange for you to conceive of a date that takes place
before
the two parties have been naked in bed together.”

“That’s low.”

“Oh, come on. Have a sense of humor.”

“You’re just lucky that I’m in a charitable mood. Darius invited me to go skiing with his family over spring break, and believe it or not, Jules said I could go.”

“That’s great, Cleo.”

She adjusts the belt on the sweater. She takes my hair in her hands. “Hold still.” She pulls it up and considers what I would look like with it in a ponytail, then she thinks better of it and lets it go.

“Well,” she says, “you look perfect. My work here is done.” She gives me a hug and takes her suitcase home.

Zack arrives right on time. I answer the door and let him into the entryway just long enough to grab my scarf and my purse, and then we’re off. I couldn’t stand a whole come-on-in-and-be-inspected-by-the-parents scene, so Mom and Dad agree to stay in the kitchen. They take me at my word that Zack is a nice boy from school, not some old pervert or deranged coke addict I met at the mall.

The drive over to Il Bacio helps calm my nerves; it gives us a chance to talk without having to make eye contact. It gives me a chance to study his profile and take in exactly how adorable he looks tonight without him reading this all over my face. He’s wearing a brown suede jacket and a light green V-neck sweater. He’s freshly shaven. His hair still looks a little wet, and he smells like hair product. To top it off, he has
A Rush of Blood to the Head
playing on the car stereo. Could he be any more perfect?

Our table is in the back, in a little corner by a fireplace that is filled with burning candles rather than logs, and I’m grateful because, as I think I’ve mentioned, I tend to sweat when I’m nervous. The waiter brings our menus and fills our water glasses, and then Zack folds his arms on the table and takes a long look at me.

“Hi,” he says.

I’m not sure why, but this just completely disarms me. He looks so comfortable and so happy to be here, like he wants to savor every minute. I know how he feels. I’m feeling the exact same way.

“Zack,” I say, “there’s something I have to tell you.”

That look of comfort is replaced by a look of concern.

“What is it?”

“This isn’t easy for me,” I say. I pause and take a sip of my water. “I can’t stand eggplant.”

The dinner is amazing. I don’t mean the food. I stand by my earlier proclamation that the food isn’t very memorable. But the evening is magical. I can hardly believe that I’m here, that this is happening, that life can be so perfect and so uncomplicated.

After they clear our plates and before they bring the dessert, Zack looks at me and says, “You probably already knew this, but I’ve had a mad crush on you since you came in for coffee that morning when you were gathering signatures for the ACLU.”