Slightly Single (20 page)

Somebody orders another round, and before I take a sip of the fresh drink, I realize I’m slurring my words.

But just a little.

And nobody else seems to notice.

Sonja, who’s a production editor at some obscure publishing house, is telling Buckley she might be able to get him some copywriting work. And Mae is on her cell phone, talking to her faraway fiancé, who apparently calls her every night at this time.

I think about how I haven’t spoken to Will since before I went home last weekend. I got home early Monday night, thinking he’d call, but he didn’t. I worked a gallery opening for Milos last night, and there were no messages on my machine when I got home.

Why hasn’t he called me, dammit?

Why can’t I be confident, like Mae is, about our long-distance relationship lasting?

My head is swimming with boozy thoughts of Will. I check my watch. It’s almost ten. I wonder if he’s back at the cast house yet after this evening’s performance. What would happen if I called him there?

The question is strictly rhetorical, of course, because I don’t have a phone number where he can be reached.

But let’s just say I call directory information, and I get the main number for the theater, and whoever answers gives me the number for the pay phone in the cast house.

Let’s just say that it’s not busy for a change—Will has told me it’s
always
busy so there’s no point in giving me the number—and somebody picks up and I ask for Will.

What will he say when he finds out that it’s me?

Will he be surprised?

Hell, yes.

Pleasantly surprised?

Sure.

Or maybe not.

It’s hard to say.

As Mae smooches kisses into her cell phone and Buckley writes down Sonja’s phone number on a cocktail napkin, I become fixated on my plan.

I have to call Will. I
have
to.

I drink more of my drink. This one is stronger. Less fruity.

I have to talk to him tonight.
Now.

My heart is pounding.

I realize that I’m starting to have that same sensation I had the other night on the bus, and before that in my apartment.

This time it’s not as intense. But I’m afraid. What’s happening to me?

The jukebox is blasting an old Eagles song.

I look at Buckley.

He’s wrapped up in Sonja and whatever she’s saying.

Mae is laughing into her cell phone.

The bartender is pouring rum into a blender.

Did he put something in my drink?

I take another cautious sip.

It doesn’t taste toxic.

Just strong.

Everyone else’s drink came from the same batch, and nobody else looks like they’ve been poisoned, so it’s just me. It’s just that weird thing happening again.

I need to call Will.

“I’ll be right back,” I tell the others, grabbing my bag.

I start pushing my way blindly toward the far back corner of the restaurant, instinctively going for the rest rooms.

Please let there be a pay phone there. Please.

There is.

Please let me have a quarter. Quarters. I need lots of quarters. Please.

Luckily, I haven’t completely eliminated the clutter from my life. The bottom of my bag is filled with loose change. No wonder my shoulder is always aching, I think vaguely as I sort through the fistful of silver and copper, shove a quarter into the slot, and dial.

I fish a pen and a stray Big Red wrapper from the
depths of my bag and scribble down the number for the Valley Playhouse.

Then, after feeding more change, dialing, and feeding additional change, the phone is ringing in my ear.

I lean against the wall, grateful that the small corridor outside the rest rooms is empty for the moment. There’s a swinging door separating the area from the blaring jukebox and drunken voices in the bar.

I’m a wreck.

The hand that isn’t pressing the receiver against my ear is trembling like crazy, and my heart is still racing. I feel like I can’t catch my breath.

It’s not just the booze, or the lack of food—although I’m sure that’s not helping the situation.

It’s something else. I’m terrified.

Am I having a heart attack?

There’s a tightness in my chest.

Oh, God.

Was it there before I thought about the heart attack?

I’m not sure.

I’m so focused on analyzing my physical symptoms and the growing intensity of my heart rate that I forget exactly what it is that I’m doing here until there’s a click in my ear and a male voice says, “Valley Playhouse, Edward speaking.”

It’s stammer time.

“I…um, I was wondering…is this…uh, is this the Valley Playhouse?” I finally blurt helplessly. I am a complete idiot, but I can’t help it.

“Yes, it is.” Edward is patient.

Encouraged, I manage to ask for the phone number for the cast house.

Instead of rattling it off, Edward says, “I see. And are you trying to get in touch with one of our cast members?”

Now who’s the idiot? Why else would I need the number?

“Yes, I am,” I tell him, and ask for Will.

How can my voice sound so calm when I’m frantic inside?

“Is this an emergency?”

Yes, it’s an emergency.

I need Will.

I need him desperately.

I’m having a heart attack and I need to speak to him before I die.

“Yes, it is,” I say, on the verge of hysteria, praying Edward senses that I’m not faking the urgency in my voice.

“Please hang on,” he says promptly.

And I try.

I really do.

I try to hang on.

But I’m falling apart.

A cigarette will help me.

Open the bag.

Find the pack.

Good.

Find the lighter.

No lighter.

Shit.

Find matches.

Light a cigarette.

Inhale deeply.

It doesn’t help.

My heart is throbbing, and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat. It’s all I can do not to drop the phone and get the hell out of here.

Get the hell out of this rest room corridor, and this crowded bar, and this Will neighborhood, and this unfamiliar city, and this lonely life.

But no.

I can’t go.

Edward is going to get me a telephone number where I can reach Will. And if I can just speak to Will, everything is going to be okay.

I take another drag.

What if smoking is making the heart attack worse?

It doesn’t seem to be.

I have the same symptoms, but now I seem to be getting woozier, too. From the drinks. The alcohol is taking a stronger hold.

Is it just that? Maybe I’m just drunk.

No. What about my heart?

What if it’s a heart attack?

What if it’s
not
a heart attack?

Then what is it? What’s wrong with me?

Two women pass by on their way to the ladies’ room. One gives me a dirty look and whispers something to the other. At first I don’t realize why.

Then I see that I’m standing beneath a No Smoking sign.

Oh. So? So what?

I raise the cigarette to my lips and inhale again.

Drunken defiance.

They can’t stop me.

Then there’s a clatter in my ear, and Will’s breathless voice is on the line. “Hello? Hello? Mom? Is that you?”

Ecstasy.

It’s Will.

Confusion.

Mom?

“Will? It’s me.”

There’s a pause on his end, followed by an incredulous, “Tracey?”

“Yes!”

“I thought you must be my—What’s wrong?”

“I just wanted the phone number. For the cast house. I mean—that’s what I asked Edward to—he didn’t have to get you.”

“Tracey, what the—? What are you doing?” Another pause.

It’s my pause, I guess. Because it’s my turn, and I’m afraid to speak.

“Edward said there was an emergency phone call for me,” Will says succinctly. “I was backstage, in between songs. In two minutes I have to be back onstage singing ‘We Go Together.”’

“‘We Go Together,”’ I echo, my mind racing
wildly. I’m a momentary contestant on
Millionaire.
And I know this one. “We Go Together.”

There! I’ve got it. “Will, you’re doing
Grease!
”

“Yes, I’m doing
Grease.
Tracey, you sound wasted. Are you wasted?”

“No!”

“Tracey, tell me…is this an emergency phone call, or what?”

“Yes!”

“What’s wrong?”

This. This is wrong. His attitude is wrong. His tone is impatient, as though he doesn’t believe me.

Why the hell wouldn’t he believe me? Edward believed me. Edward, a total stranger, believed me, and Will, my boyfriend, doesn’t.

“Tracey, for God’s sake, I have to be back onstage in a minute. What’s going on? What’s the emergency?”

He wants me to name my emergency. Is he for real?

“Tracey, speak!”

“Why are you talking to me like this?” I wail.

“Because…is this an emergency, or are you drunk?”

“I’m not drunk!” I bellow, just as the two women from before come out of the ladies’ room.

Dammit.

This is a mess.

I’m
a mess.

But I’m not drunk.

That is not why I’m calling him.

That is not why I have these symptoms.

“Then what’s the emergency?” Will repeats.

He’s still impatient. Still not kind, or loving.

Still not the person I need him to be.

“It’s my heart,” I say, taking a deep breath. Shuddering, because it hurts and I can’t seem to take as deep a breath as I need to take and there’s something wrong, dammit, and Will won’t—

“What about your heart, Tracey?”

What about my heart? I’m trying to focus. To answer the question.

What about my heart?

It aches.

It’s breaking. Will is breaking my heart. I lean against the wall, my head tilted back, eyes closed. I feel limp.

He doesn’t understand.

He’s on the phone, the way I wanted. But this is not helping. This…

This is hostile.

Will is hostile.

“Tracey, I have to go,” he says shortly. “I’ve got to get back onstage.”

“But, Will…I need you.”

“You called this number and told Edward it was an emergency. This was the emergency? That you need me?”

“Why are you so angry at me?” I’m crying now. “Will, stop talking to me this way. Don’t you care?”

“Don’t I care about what?”

About me?

No.

Don’t say that.

“Don’t you care that I’m in pain?”

“Tracey…”

“No, Will, I mean real, physical pain. I’m a mess. I can’t breathe and I’m lightheaded and my heart is beating too fast….”

“That’s because you’ve been drinking.”

“No, it isn’t! Stop saying that!”

“You’re drunk, Tracey. I can tell. You’re slurring. This is pathetic. I have to go.”

“No, Will, don’t—”

“Goodbye.”

“Please, Will, don’t—”

Click.

Dial tone.

Panic.

He’s gone!

Where’s that gum wrapper?

Search your pockets.

Search your bag.

Please. It’s not here. Where is it? I need it. I need the phone number of the Valley Playhouse. I need to call him back.

But by now he’s singing “We Go Together.”

Ramma lamma ding dong.

So I’ll wait until he’s finished.