Faking Life (13 page)

“Actually, I think I'll have a glass of wine this round. Do you have a Merlot back there?”

And just like that, as though a nozzle opened in his brain, the itch came spewing forth, flooding his mind with memories and images long forgotten. The images were of another woman he'd known—long before he'd ever met Esther. Long hair, icy cold fingers. Her face flashed briefly in his mind and John saw himself with her. She was the only one who knew why looking at a glass of wine made John break into a cold sweat.

“Everything ok?” Esther asked. John's hand was plastered on the countertop. He could feel cool sweat coating his forehead. Esther gently placed her hand on his. He instantly retracted. “Jesus John, you're shaking, what's the matter?” He couldn't move. His lips wouldn't open, brain wouldn't work. He felt like he was strapped into a chair watching an old film reel, his eyelids taped open, unable to divert his attention.

The images, they were clear as day. He could feel her hands, could still smell her sour perfume. One of the nails on her left hand was chipped and it left a mark on his arm he told people he got from falling off his bike. Too young, too nervous.

Listen to me
, she'd said.
Listen to me and do everything I say and you can go back to your games.
He did everything she asked. And he still didn't know…

And now he remembered.

Then suddenly, he felt something warm and hard smack against his cheek. Stunned, he looked down. A half-eaten chicken wing lay on the counter.

“What the…” He looked around the bar, then at Esther. “Did someone just throw a chicken wing at me?” She took a napkin and wiped the barbecue sauce from his face, nervously glancing around the bar.

“I didn't see anything, but…” Another wing hit him, this time skidding off his head.

“Who the fuck is doing that?” Then he saw him. The guy in the Yankees hat. He was sitting there staring at John, a stupid grin on his face. He heard Esther suck in her breath. “Excuse me for a second, be right back.” John walked down to the end of the bar, lifted the partition and walked to the man's table. “You. The fuck you think you're doing?”

The guy looked up, a 'Who me?' look on his face.

“I don't know what you're talking about. Get back behind the bar and serve your drinks.” He looked at Esther. “How you doin' honey? This guy keeping you entertained” Esther said nothing.

“You throw another wing and you're out of here asshole.” Suddenly the man stood up and raised his hand in the air.

“Excuse me. Hello? Manager?”

“What're you doing?” He ignored John, continued to wave his hands and shout. Artie heard the calls and came over to the table.

“Help you?”

“You the manager?”

“I'm the owner. What's the problem?” The man pointed at John.

“He's my problem. Your man here just called me an asshole.” Artie looked at John and placed his hands on his hips.

“Did you?”

“Artie, the guy was throwing chicken wings at me.”

“So you called him an asshole?”

“Look, it's just…” Artie turned his back to John.

“I apologize for my server's lack of manners. I'm sure he'll be happy to apologize for his behavior. Won't you John?” Artie glared at him. John felt his face getting warm.

“Artie, come on. This is bullshit.”

“Won't you?” Artie asked, his brow furrowed. John sighed, grimaced.

“I'm sorry. You're not an asshole.”

The guy in the hat smiled. “Good enough for me. Just see it doesn't happen again. I'm very sensitive, you know. Being called names causes me severe emotional distress. My therapist can prove it. I'll sue you next time.” Artie took the guy's shoulder and laughed.

“Don't worry friend, there won't be a next time. John, this guy drinks on the house the rest of the night. Stacy? Get him another plate of wings, will you?” She nodded reluctantly and went to the kitchen. John looked at Esther. She hadn't said a word, her eyes were staring off into nowhere. When Artie left, John sidled back behind the bar and returned to her.

“I'm sorry, but that guy…”

“It wasn't your fault,” she said, her voice emotionless. He nodded, then heard a rapping on the bar. Yankees hat was drumming his fingers against the wood.

“Hey, you, I'm in the mood for a Tequila Sunrise. You know how to make those,
asshole
?” With that, the man picked a dripping wing off his plate and flung it squarely into John's face. John eyed him for a moment, wiped the sauce from hi face, then spun around to face Esther.

“I need to leave.” John said.

“Just ignore that guy, he's being a jerk.”

John's eyes dropped, a hole widening in his stomach. He shook his head remorsefully. “I'm sorry, I just have to. Hopefully I can explain another time, but I just can't be here right now.”

He frantically glanced around the bar. Artie was nowhere in sight. John turned back to Esther, reached over and squeezed her hand. Her mouth was open, a confused look on her face. “I'm so, so sorry. I really do want to see you again. But I have to go.” He ducked under the partition and stepped out from behind the bar. “I'm on all this week except tomorrow. Come in before nine.” He left and found Stacy, a steaming plate of wings on her tray. He stopped her in her tracks, nearly causing her to drop the plate.

“Calm down John, what's up?”

“Stace, I need a favor.” She put the tray on the nearest table and let out a sigh. John could tell she was already expecting the worst.

“
What
?”

“I need you to take over behind the bar until Lisa gets here.” Her expression didn't change.

“You're fucking joking, right?” He shook his head. “John, I have tables to wait on and you're the only tender on duty. I have to bring that guy his wings and Artie's already pissed. I can't possibly do both.”

“Enzo can help you.” Stacy looked at Enzo, placing bottles of liquor in their stills. Enzo saw them and nodded.

“John, Enzo's been working here two years and he's never served a drink.”

“So don't you think he's picked up something along the way? Besides, pouring beer is easy. Just show him how to work the Guinness tap, the rest is easy. You can handle the well drinks.” She shook her head.

“I don't know, John. Artie gets pissed, he might take it out on me for covering your ass.”

“How about this…I'll call you if you do this for me. I promise. I still have your number at home.” Stacy scowled and jabbed her finger into his chest.

“Don't you
fucking
placate me John. I'm not going to stick up for you in the hopes that superstar bullshitter John Gillis might actually call me. Don't treat me like a goddamn two year old. I don't need your pity calls, and fuck you for suggesting that I do.” John winced and stepped back.

“You're right, you didn't deserve that. But seriously, I do need your help and I swear one way or another I'll make it up to you. If Artie asks any questions just tell him I booked and you're covering for me. That way you gain face and I'll take all the heat.” Stacy looked at him skeptically, trying to size him up.

“Can you at least tell me what gives? You're ready to skip and Artie's a minute away from booting you in the first place. Just clue me in, John. What's your deal?” John looked at her, a grin on his face. He decided to hold back. He was willing to wait it out. In the end, it would be worth it.

“Things'll work out,” he said. “I just can't be here right now, I can't take this. Don't worry, you'll see for yourself. Pretty soon I won't need to say a word.” He left Stacy and ran back to Esther. “I…”

“I know,” she said, her voice soft, distant. “You're sorry.” John nodded, then put his hand on hers. He held it for a brief moment, a thought entering his mind which he quickly discarded, and headed towards the door.

As he passed by the tables in the front, John felt a thick mass—somebody's leg?—slam against his ankle. He fell forward, his kneecap slamming into the ground while his shoulder crashed into a chair leg with an audible
thud
. Pain shot through his body like a bolt of lightning. John struggled lamely to his feet and looked back. He saw only the guy in the Yankees hat, drinking a pint of beer and looking otherwise unconcerned.

“Oaf,” the man muttered. “Watch your step next time.” John eyed the man. Now wasn't the time.
Be cool
, he thought.

John collected himself, limped outside, and hailed the first cab he saw.

Had he waited a moment longer and turned around, he would have seen the look of absolute horror and disbelief on Esther's face.

***

When he entered the apartment, the words poured from John like pus from a wound that had been bandaged without ever healing. He typed deep into the night, long after Paul came home and graded a dozen papers and long after listening to three progressively angrier calls from Artie go straight to the answering machine. He drowned everything out, his mind taking in thoughts he couldn't see but could
feel
firing across his synapses. Finally he sat back, read over the pages, and smiled.

He got up without looking at the clock, which blinked 4:23 a.m. He took a bottle of Andre from the fridge, filled up a plastic Mets mug and sipped as he reread his words.

Unbelievable. It had been so long since he'd thought about any of it…

Rubbed his head, John shut the laptop down.

He put a plastic stopper in the half-full bottle of champagne. He never wasted a drop of the stuff. If he was going to be cheap, he might as well go the full nine.

He pulled back the covers and set his alarm. His body ached for a good night sleep. He was thinking about Esther, hoping she'd come back He hadn't wanted to leave her, but he just needed to clear his head.

He felt himself drifting off to sleep when the telephone rang. Squinting in the dark, he fumbled for the cordless, checked his watch and groaned. Annoyed, he pressed 'Talk'.

“Hello?”

“Yes, is this Jonathan Gillis?”

“Um, yeah, who's this?

“John, my name is Dr. Chen from the Cardiac Care Center at Mount Sinai. I need to speak to you about your mother.” John's heart froze.

“My…my mother? What about her?”

“I'm afraid she's had a coronary.”

“A coronary?”

“John, your mother's had a heart attack.” Jon gasped and felt his legs grow weak. He pulled himself into a sitting position.
Mom, oh God…
“She's in intensive care. Your father asked me to call, he said he didn't want to leave her side.”

John bolted out of bed and threw on his clothes, hanging up without warning. He threw on his jacket and ignored Paul who'd stumbled into the living room, asking who was calling at five in the morning.

The New York streets were empty, the sun just beginning to peek over the gray horizon. John pictured his mother lain up in bed, his father crying. He felt hollow, diseased. When was the last time he'd even
seen
them? If only he'd been there for her…

Running into the street, the cool air penetrating his skin, John flagged down a speeding taxi. After he gave the address, John hugged his body tight, his knees shaking, tears forming in his eyes.
He didn't say she wouldn't make it. God, please let her be alright. I swear I'll be a better son. I swear I'll make you proud. Please don't take her away…

The cab pulled up at the corner of 100th Street and Fifth Avenue. John threw the driver a ten and sprinted into the emergency room. His body was numb. He felt a distant throbbing from where his knee had hit the floor after that guy tripped him. A dozen people were seated in the waiting room, newspapers making crinkled noises. He saw blood on a young boy's hand, the mother pleading with an orderly to admit him. He ran to the reception, a bleary-eyed woman behind a pane of glass poring over a sheet of paper.

“Katherine Gillis. Where is she?” The woman looked up, clearly in no hurry. She blinked, breathed out, then took a logbook and flipped to the last page.

“What'd you say the name was?”

“Gillis. Katherine Gillis. I'm her son.” She looked at the page, then back at John.

“When was she admitted?”

“Tonight. Please, I need to see her.” The woman licked her thumb and flipped to the previous page, then another, then another.

“I'm sorry, I don't got nothing here for any Gillis this week. You sure she come in through the emergency room?”

John sprinted back down the street, sweat chilling his back. He could visualize his poor mother, tubes running in and out of her body, doctors with scalpels hovering over her, waiting to attack the poison inside. He should have been with her.
Please let her be alright.

He ran through the revolving door and was stopped in his tracks by an elderly black man with a sagging blue hat manning a security desk. The hall smelled barren, a whiff of antiseptic made John gag. The guard looked wide awake, a half empty cup of coffee next to the computer.

“Name and ID.” John gave him both. “Patient to see?”

“Katharine Gillis.”

“Room number?”

“I don't know. Somewhere in the Cardiac Center.” The man entered something into the computer, then looked at John.

“That spelled G-I-L-I-S?”

“Two 'L's.” The guard typed more data, then looked at John.

“I'm sorry, we don't have anyone checked in under the name Gillis.”
That's not possible. Just tell me where she is.

“Can you buzz Dr. Chen?” He clicked more buttons, then looked back at John, shaking his head.

“Only Doctor Chen here is Phillip Chen, and he's in OB/GYN services. He went home for the night.”

“You're sure about that? There isn't another Chen you're confusing? Maybe it's Chan, not Chen.”

“Only Chen
or
Chan is Phillip.”

“There must be some mistake, hold on.” John pulled out his phone and dialed his father's cell number. After five rings, John caught his breath as he heard a voice answer. A voice that sounded like it had been woken from deep sleep.

“John?” He sounded surprised.
What the fuck was going on? “
John, it's five in the morning, what's going on?”

John cupped a hand over his forehead. “Dad, what do you…where's mom?”