Louder Than Love (30 page)

Open the Heart

Luke led us right out of the tapestry room into an enclosed square garden. The warmth of its pink marbled columns and fragrant plants instantly cheered me. Abbey made a beeline for the center fountain.

“What a day, eh?” Luke took my hand.

“Yeah.” I sniffed. “I wanted to tell you . . . I haven’t been too sure how to share it, but I—I’ve met someone.”

“Oh, Tree. I think that’s great.” Luke squeezed me hard, and Abbey came running back down the path, bumping into our legs. “Really.” He pulled back and looked into my eyes. “You are entitled to every happiness. I look forward to meeting him.”

“Thank you,” I whispered, standing on tiptoes to kiss his cheek.

“My brother was a lucky man,” Luke said softly, “and he knew it, Tree.”

There’s a position in yoga that opens your heart: your face toward the sky, shoulders down, while your hands are clasped behind you and pulling down. I had my head tilted up toward Luke, and Abbey was running in circles around us, tugging my hands back in her solo game of chase. As Luke said those words, I truly felt it was a heart-opening moment. I had loved Pete, and he had loved me. There was enough love in me for Adrian, Abbey, Luke, and all the wonderful people in my life without feeling like I was shortchanging anyone—or anyone’s memory.

We smiled at each other.

“Unkie Luke, what’s a cloister?” Abbey wanted to know.

“See all these walkways and covered paths surrounding us? Those are cloisters. You usually find them in a church or an abbey.”

“But
I’m
an Abbey!” She laughed. “I’m gonna go visit the unicorn again.”

“Look at her march,” Luke observed with a smile. “Right at home in this place.”

This place has her name written all over it.

Oh my God. The Cloisters. Abby’s Field. Fort Tryon. When Adrian had mentioned it once as his favorite park, I had told him I never ventured above 125th Street.

Venture out of your comfort zone.

“Luke, what time is it?”

“Just after four. Why?”

I scrambled after Abbey, back into the tapestry room. She was standing in front of the tattered fragment, her little face studying the lovesick face of the doomed beast.

Where the myth surrenders to the maiden.

Close the Doors

“Oh my God. We have to go.”

“Tree, are you all right?” Luke watched, concerned, as I swiveled my head toward every possible exit.

“I’ll call you later, okay? Come on, Abbey!” She threw her arms around Luke in a quick hug and grabbed my hand.

We raced out, retracing our steps. Abby’s Field was green and wild, alive with children running. No trace of Adrian. Had he been here? Had he been inside, waiting in vain with the unicorn?

As we approached the exit of the park, my heart took a sickening dive. Two police cruisers ringed the large paved circle normally meant for pedestrians. Long barricades had been placed for what appeared to be crowd control reasons, although people were drifting away from the area and an officer was dismantling the blue wooden sawhorses.

“What happened?” I asked a woman standing to my right. She wore a large baby carrier backpack and was chugging from a water bottle.

“I’m not sure,” she responded. “I think maybe that guy got mugged.” She gestured toward an agitated man standing with another cop. The baby on her back gummed a cracker and stared at Abbey.

A nearby pretzel vendor leaned over his cart. “No, he got his camera smashed.” He pointed to two teenagers on the other side of Fort Washington Avenue. “Those kids were with another guy—”

“It was some celebrity; the boys asked for his autograph,” chimed in an older woman. “Then
that
man”—she nodded toward the upset man with the cop—“ran up and began hollering and snapping pictures. I was waiting for my son to pay the cab fare and was practically knocked down!”

“Celebrity?” The pretzel vendor shrugged. “Didn’t know him from nobody. Polite guy, though. Bought a soda from me earlier.”

The woman’s son shook his head disgustedly. “No respect for privacy. To hound someone like that! Trying to make money on some gossip site, I’m sure. I would’ve broken his camera, too, if he had blocked
my
path.”

I glanced toward the parked police cars, half expecting to see Adrian in the back of one of them. “So where’d the guy . . . the celebrity go?”

“Jumped right into the cab we’d vacated.”

The baby laughed; Abbey was making funny faces at it.

“Only in New York!” I heard the pretzel vendor say as Abbey and I jaywalked toward the teens.

One was smoking a cigarette, and both were loud and hyper. The other people waiting at the bus stop with them were edging away in irritation. Their uniform of shaggy hair, jeans, and black band T-shirts was enough to confirm my suspicions. But the familiar-looking signature, freshly inked on one of the teens’ messenger bags, left no question in my mind. “Dude,” the kid with the messenger bag was saying to his friend, “your mom is going to totally freak.”

“Who gives a shit?” The other teen moved to take a puff from his cigarette, and I spied a similar autograph Sharpied onto his bare forearm. “Totally tattooing it!” He gave the air a couple of victory punches. “Digger Graves, muthafucka!”

“Note to self,” messenger bag kid said with a laugh. “Ask him for his autograph, but never for a picture. Did you see how postal he went on that dude?”

I scooted Abbey into a cab. “Sixty-eighth and Broadway, please.”

The cab careened out of Washington Heights. With one hand in Abbey’s and the other on my phone, I shakily dialed and got his voice mail. “Hey . . . it’s me. I got the riddle . . . too late. Um . . . are you okay? Heading to Ollie’s now.” I slowly pushed the phone into my pocket, frowning to myself. I could only imagine how this latest scuffle had ruffled him—it must’ve been like the vampire paparazzi in the all-night diner with Simone all over again.

“Are we meeting Adrian?” Abbey asked.

“I hope so.”

As we exited the cab and crossed over toward the restaurant, Abbey began waving at someone. It was Dirty Stroller Man from our pilgrimage to the hot dog stand. I gently admonished her, but all she said was, “He waved first. I was just being polite.”

We stood outside Ollie’s and waited. I pulled out my phone and quickly texted.

We’re @ Ollie’s. Where R U?

Abbey smushed her nose against the glass, watching waiters as they carried plate after plate of steaming noodles past. My eyes drifted from corner to corner, waiting to catch sight of that familiar gait.

More and more diners pushed past us into the noodle shop. Abbey was beginning to fidget. 5:20. “Okay, Abb. Maybe we should try his place.” I checked my phone. Nothing.
We’re on our way to you
, I typed.

The hostess was smiling through the window at us. She held up a fortune cookie and pointed at Abbey, nodding her head. Abbey quickly ran in and retrieved it.

I hailed a cab, and we sailed across 64th, Abbey buckled safely into the middle seat. I squinted and read her fortune aloud as we bumped along. “‘One joy scatters a hundred griefs.’ That means you can have a lot of sad things happen in your life, but having one happy thing happen can make you feel much better about all of them,” I explained.

The cookie was right. I thought back to my epiphany in the gardens, surrounded by Luke and Abbey. Bolstered by Luke’s good news and his positive reception of mine, I knew I could finally share with Adrian everything I hadn’t had the courage to before. He had laid all of his skeletons out for me, ugly and bare, and we had gotten through it. Now it was my turn. Not Truth or Dare. Only truth. My resolve was stone solid. No crumbling this time.

My cell phone beeped, and my heart jumped upon sight of the tiny fat envelope icon at the top of the screen. A text.

Too many ghosts, Kat. I can’t com(pete).

Can’t come.

Can’t compete.

Pete.

You don’t have to compete. I’m putting the ghosts to rest.
My fingers couldn’t push the keys fast enough to keep up with the racing of my mind and heart.
One joy scatters a hundred griefs.
I don’t know why I texted him the fortune. I had planned on sharing it in person. When I shared everything else.

“Good afternoon, Ms. Lewis. Hi, Abbey. Is he expecting you?” Hector, the doorman on duty, picked up his phone as we trooped into the lobby.

“Kind of. I think.” My laugh was shaky. “We got our lines crossed.”

Hector turned his back slightly, and after a moment, slowly hung up the phone. “I’m sorry, Ms. Lewis . . .”

“Did he pick up? We were supposed to meet him.” Hector was shaking his head apologetically. “Can’t we just go up and—”

“I am sorry. I can’t let anyone up on the floors who doesn’t have a key.” He avoided my eyes. I felt as unwelcome, as intrusive as the curious fan, the pesky paparazzi. I was being shut out.

“Mommy, when can we see Adrian?” Abbey asked.

“Thank you, Hector,” I managed, and pulled Abbey outside.

“I want to go in!” Abbey protested.

“Hold on a second, Abbey.”

Another text was waiting.

My grief lies onward, and my joy behind.

What the hell . . .

I must’ve muttered under my breath, because Abbey began pulling on my hands, trying to look at my phone. I shooed her away like a fly, and Adrian’s Shakespeare ring on my finger caught the late afternoon sun sifting through Central Park.

Shakespeare.

I quoted a fortune cookie.

He quoted fucking Shakespeare.

WE KNOW WHAT WE ARE,
his ring mocked.

You are caution, I am chaos. Like the Zoas, split by experience
, his next text read.

Why was he doing this? I couldn’t imagine his reason.

Stop. I love you.
My fingers ached as much as my heart. Couldn’t he sense my passion?

Good-bye, Kat.

“I’m hungry. I want Ollie’s,” Abbey said, pouting.

“Okay,” I heard my voice tell her. “We’re leaving.”

It was the magic hour when taxis went off duty—the changing of the cabbie guard. We began to walk as yellow cab after yellow cab passed us, lights off. I periodically carried Abbey, starting out strong but ending with a shaking finish a few blocks later. The pack holding our overnight items felt like an anvil on my spine.

Ollie’s was absolutely mobbed when we arrived back. Bodies were jammed into the tiny vestibule, and faces looked hungry and hostile.

“Come this way, sweetie.” At this point, we were heading south, but walking blindly. I didn’t know what to do next.

“Mommy, I am so
so
hungry!”

“We’ll get something in a minute. There’s a good Chinese place on the next corner.”

As we approached the maroon awning of what I thought was Happy China, where Pete and I used to share dishes when we were in college, my heart sank. It had turned into a trendy Pacific Rim fusion place, far too complicated for Abbey’s palate. Behind the window, diners ate and drank happily, confident with their places in the world. I was beginning to feel like one of the relics from the museum. The Manhattan I once knew like my backyard was a foreign land. Familiar corners transformed to unrecognizable, no cabs to be found. A bus rumbled slowly past, but I didn’t dare stick Abbey and myself on it. I didn’t trust my sense of aboveground public transportation enough.

Finally, we found an available cab. I was done with the city. “How much to drive to Westchester?”

The cabbie turned. “Lady. Are you serious?”

“You must go up to Stewart Airport, right?”

“Not today. Traffic will be nuts getting back into town. Everyone’s coming in for fireworks. I can’t lose all my fare tonight waiting on the bridge. I can take you to Grand Central.”

“Fine.” Panic was rising in my throat, but I didn’t want to let on to Abbey. She seemed content sitting and riding in the air-conditioning and had temporarily forgotten about food. Until, of course, we arrived at Grand Central and she began begging me for McDonald’s.

I was so freaked out by the prospect of taking the train that I progressed on autopilot, grabbing Abbey a Happy Meal and racing through the main terminal in search of the right ticket window.

“Mommy, look! Daddy!” I had been pulling on her little arm like a dead weight, trying to read the departure board and get to the ticket window in time to catch the next train.

“What?”

“The stars! Look! They’re so pretty!”

In all the hustle-bustle, I hadn’t realized this was the first time my child was looking upon the ceiling of Grand Central Terminal, filled with its marvelous constellations. She gaped like a tourist, and it practically broke my heart. While trying to insulate our shattered little unit from further pain, I had unwittingly denied Abbey another of her birthrights. Every child in New York should have the luxury of staring and dreaming up to the heavens, whether it was the true blue skies above Central Park or the mottled plaster stratosphere of the landmark station. Adrian was right. I owed Abbey . . . so much more.

“Sweetie, we just don’t have time today.” I pulled her onward.

Outbound Metro-North trains were on a holiday schedule, few and far between. By the time we got seated and moving, the sky was beginning to grow dark, I was drained, and Abbey was still crying hunger.

“You wanted this Happy Meal, so eat it,” I snapped, flinging down the tray table in front of her and laying out the lukewarm food on napkins that grew instant grease spots. She was still kvetching as we burst out of the dark tunnel and aboveground. I leaned my forehead against the window and stared out at the endless tracks ahead.

Everything was metal and stone. No spot of grass . . . as if no living thing could possibly exist anywhere near these tracks. Life was transported back and forth across the tracks daily, but nothing that lingered behind could stay alive for long.

Abbey ate one piece of chicken and pushed it away. A rage came over me. I slammed the cardboard container back in front of her and demanded she eat more or she would go to bed hungry.

“I hate you,” Abbey wailed. “And I hate Mad Hatter. I’m moving to Large Vegas. Away from you.”

I was horrified—what kind of mother had I become? Yelling in public, forcing crap food down my daughter’s throat? “I’m sorry, baby . . . I’m so sorry. Mommy is sad right now . . . I didn’t mean to . . .” Abbey let me kiss her head and hug her, but she stayed quiet, except for her sniffling and the occasional sipping from her juice box.

Every creak and rock of the train car had me white-knuckled, squeezing the armrests.
Home, I just want to get us home.

As we neared our station, we saw the first cascade of fireworks light the sky, somewhere up above the Hudson. Deep inside me, I felt like I had explosives popping in every direction, fearful I wouldn’t be able to keep them under control.

Marissa’s minivan was waiting silently for us in the lot. I had called her from the train. “No questions, please,” I said wearily, and that was all I needed to say. I snuck a peek at her as we drove in silence. She was wearing blue denim capris, a red T-shirt, and a red, white, and blue headband in her hair. I had no doubt pulled her from fireworks with her family, but I was too exhausted to apologize or thank her. My hug good-bye would have to do. Inside, I gave Abbey a proper dinner and broke my number-one Mom rule: I tucked her into my bed.

“Where’s Adrian?” she wanted to know.

I looped her hair behind her ear and kissed her forehead gently. “I don’t know, Abb. But I’m trying to . . . figure that out.” She looked so worried and forlorn. It nearly crushed my already devastated heart. I put on my best game face and softly sang one of her favorite renditions from Adrian’s mix CD.
“Who lives in a pineapple under the sea?”

“Abbey Lewis,” she whispered, her eyelids finally beginning to waver.

I stared at my phone long into the night before finally working up my courage to call him.
Don’t do this to me,
my brain chastised him.
To Abbey. She can’t lose someone again.
“Leave me a message,” his voice dared on both his answering machine and mobile voice mail. It occurred to me he never made the expected promise of “and I’ll call you back.”