The Girl Without a Name (24 page)

I lie there a minute, warm in my bed, a glow floating in me. He
does
want me. He does want me after all. And maybe this is what I've been waiting for all this time. My reward pellet. “It's natural to be nervous, Jean Luc. This is a big life change. But it doesn't mean you don't love Melanie.” Though I myself don't know how anyone could love that ghastly creature.

“Maybe,” he says, like maybe not. But then again, Jean Luc was never of a strong backbone. My halfhearted speech could be all it takes to convince him.

“Take some time. Think about it. Don't rush into a decision either way. You know what they say about fools rushing in where angels fear to tread.”

He pauses, and a rubbing noise muffles the phone. “I don't understand. What is this about the angels?”

“Never mind, it's a saying.” I suppress a yawn, not well.

“I should let you go. Do you have…the hospital in the morning?”

The hospital. My job was always faintly mysterious—and perhaps a bit distasteful, truth be told—to Jean Luc. “Yes, I do.”

“Well, okay.” He pauses, not quite ready to let go of the phone. “Zoe.” He swallows. “
Je t'aime
.”

And before I know it, I answer “
Je t'aime
” back.

We hang up then, and I lie for a while, listening to the creaks, the lone cars passing, the noises of the night. I start crying, though I couldn't say why, warm tears soaking into my pillow. Maybe because it's been a tough month. Maybe because it's been a tough year. Maybe because it's three a.m., I have to round in three hours, and I don't even love him anymore, in French or English. And the only person I really want to talk to right now is Mike, and he'll probably end up in North Carolina.

The bed shakes as Arthur shifts his body, and suddenly I find a warm tongue licking my face. I pet his goofy, puffy, labradoodle permed head and fall back to sleep.

I
n the light of day, it seems ridiculous to us both. I know this as I drive half awake into the hospital in the rose gray of the morning and get his text.

sry abt last nite. All good w melanie now

I allow myself a bitter laugh.
glad 2 hear

do u mind not telling anyone abt our talk?

I turn the radio on and write
mum = word
. Let him puzzle over that one.

still hope u will come to wedding

I don't bother to text back.
Hope you'll come to my wedding?
Ha fucking ha. Not until there's a life-form on Saturn. Stepping onto the hospital floor with the familiar beeps and overhead pages, I feel better already. Exhausted and in need of a nap, but better. Jean Luc impairs my judgment, like a too-strong cosmo. And now that he's safely in the arms of maleficent Melanie, I can stop pulling that damn lever.
C'est fini
, and I mean it this time.

I stop by Chloe's room first, since she needs her discharge orders today. “You all set?” I ask her.

“Damn straight.” She scoops her bright red bangs out of her eyes.

“Great.” I scan through her meds. “No change in anything then. You're staying on the Luvox, a hundred twice daily. Sound right?”

“Whatever. Write me the pills, and I'll take them. I just want to get the hell out of here.”

“Okay. I'll still have to see you once more with my attending, but then you'll be good to go.”

Her eyebrows lower, darkening her face. “Which attending?”

“Dr. Grant? You've met him a few times now.”

Her face relaxes. “Oh yeah, right. Geeky little dude.”

“Right,” I affirm. This is the most succinct description of the man I have ever heard. I tap my pen on the chart. “You never did like Dr. Berringer, did you?”

She shakes her head, picking at her nails, which are chewed to nubs.

“Was there a reason for that?”

She shrugs. “I'm not shedding any tears over his leap from a tall building, I'll tell you that much.” She examines another nail. “And I don't care if it makes me sound like a bitch.”

I nod. “It doesn't, really. But what makes you say that about him?” I ask, trying to sound nonjudgmental.

“Nothing,” she mutters, chewing on her fingers again. “Just…nothing.”

I have a bad feeling, a sick-gut feeling. I wait a long minute until she's looking up at me again. “You can tell me, you know. You're safe now. You can tell me anything.”

She bites her lower lip, which is trembling.

“Did he hurt you, Chloe? Is that what you were trying to tell me before? That no one believed you?”

Chloe looks down at the bedsheets and straightens out a wrinkle.

“He hurt some other girls, Chloe. If he hurt you, too, if he made you do something you didn't want to do…you can tell me about it, you know. I can help you.”

But she keeps looking down at the sheets and doesn't answer.

Candy is herself again.

Herself being someone between the old Candy and Daneesha. Janita is in foster care for now, spending her time between therapists, tutors, and visiting her sister. A cobbled-together life that approaches normal. A semblance of normal, which will have to do for now. Candy is back to beaming smiles, drawing purple pictures as well as complaining about the food, and rolling her eyes at me. Acting more like a teenager, I guess. A normal teenager. Or an almost-normal teenager. Better than the girl I've seen recently anyway, swimming in serotonin and dopamine, her brain deep-fried and making no connections to the world around her.

Dr. Grant follows her every blood lab like a hound. “Sodium today?” he asks, more of a command than a question.

“One forty,” I answer, not even glancing at my sheet. The man's been so annoying about her labs that I've been memorizing them unintentionally.

“Glucose?”

“Eighty-three. Normal.”

“CPK?”

“Trending down still. One seventeen today.”

“Okay,” he nods, satisfied. “Oh, wait. Tox screen.”

“Still pending,” I say. “But it was normal yesterday.” He's been getting them every day. He's more paranoid than I am, though not enough to merit a diagnosis yet.

“Let's see her then,” he says, shoving her chart in my hands and taking off down the hallway for me to run and catch up. He greets the sisters in his usual manner. Stiff, but not unfriendly. He doesn't have the Dr. Berringer “charm,” as Sam called it, which is obviously a good thing. “Candy, Janita.” He nods to each of them. “And how are we today?”

They give each other a private grin. “Good,” says Candy, and Janita follows with a “good,” too.

“Excellent,” he returns.

“Hey, that Tina lady said I'm gonna be out of here soon. Maybe next week?” Candy asks.

“Did she?” he says, noncommittal.

“You think that's so?” she asks, pushing him.

“I hope so,” he says, which is as good as she'll get. “As long as your labs remain stable and you've got a stable place to go.” “Stable” is one of Dr. Grant's favorite words.

“I'm going to live with Janita,” Candy announces.

“Uh-huh, that's right,” Janita agrees, going for the double-team. “Mrs. J's got a nice place set up with a bunk bed. So Candy can sleep on top. And that'll help with the nightmares, too.”

“The Tina lady said so,” Candy backs her up.

They look at us like they're talking to their parents, trying to convince them to get a puppy.
I'll walk her and feed her every day. I promise!

“How have your stools been?”

They glance at each other.

“Bowel movements?” I say, in translation.

“Oh. They fine.” Candy's face turns crimson. “No problem there.”

“And your physical therapy? How is that going?” he asks.

“With Jeremy? That's okay.”

“Yeah. Jeremy. He's fine, too,” Janita jokes, and they give each other a rapid, complex handshake that they were trying to teach me the other day.

“Muscle aches?” he asks.

She rubs her arms, involuntarily remembering them. “Better.”

“Okay.” He approaches her and runs through the exam. Muscle tone, listens to her heart and lungs. She sits up at attention and relents, like a good patient, eye-rolling and grinning to her sister all the way. Dr. Grant backs up from the bed. “You check out nicely today. I don't see a reason you can't go home very soon.”

This gets a bright smile from them both. “And she can stay with me, right?” Janita says, her voice more entreating than challenging now. “You tell that discharge lady? We can use the same tutor. And Mrs. J's got it set up real nice. Until we go back home with Heaven.”

Heaven. I wonder when they stopped calling her Mom.

“We'll see,” he says, turning to leave, and I smile a good-bye to them on the way out. Their laughter rings out as we hit the hallway. Maybe at us or maybe not. Who knows? It's the best defense they've got right now, laughing at all this. And they're going to need their defenses intact for a long while yet.

He writes his note, squeaking and wiggling the cart with every pen stroke. A sheen of dandruff rims his shoulders.

“So do you think that'll happen?” I ask.

“What?” He doesn't look up from the note.

“That they'll get to stay together?”

He shrugs. “Maybe, probably. Depends if the foster mom agrees to it. Knowing Mrs. J, she probably will.”

“You know the foster mom?”

He smiles at me, lifting his head from the chart. “I am just full of surprises, Dr. Goldman.”

The fire warms my numb, tingling toes. It's rude to have my shoes off, especially with my rather loud, purple argyle socks. But my feet are cold and I forgot my meds this morning, so I don't actually care. Eddie wanders over with a latte and a muffin for the couple at the next table and gives me a wave.

“Scotty coming in today?” I ask.

“Later,” he answers. “Like four, I think?” Someone comes over to the register then, and he goes to greet them. I circle the last question on the last pretest in the last chapter of my RITE book. The exam is in two weeks. If I don't know it by now, I should probably hang up a different shingle. Folk singing maybe, if I could carry a tune and had made it past my first and last guitar lesson in eighth grade. I check the answer and do an invisible fist pump. Yes! Bring that bitch on! I am tempted to write a Facebook post about it, when the door opens, carrying a chill in its wake.

“Nice socks,” he says, and I look up to see Mike.

“Hey, stranger,” I say with a smile. “How was call?”

“Not terrible.” He pulls off his coat and sits down next to me at an awkward angle on the settee. When he leans over to pick up my RITE book, the scent of warm pine follows him. “How are you doing on this?”

“Two weeks, baby. Ready or not, here I come.”

Mike drops it on the table with an unceremonious thud, attracting some stares, and gives an apologetic grin. “You're going to kill it.”

I put my feet back in my shoes, since my socks are burning now.

“So are you still decided on the forensic psych thing? Or did you decide that was too depressing after a few more seconds of thought?”

“Nope.” I sip my coffee. “It's decided. One-year fellowship, doing it at the County. Signed, sealed, and delivered.”

He gives me a dubious look. “You sure now?”

“One thousand percent. I already spoke with Dr. Grant.”

“Then I'll accept the job in Buffalo,” he says with equal finality.

We look at each other with matching, idiotic smiles. “So that's that then,” I say.

“That's that.” He looks up at the register to figure out his order. “How's Candy doing, by the way?”

“Pretty good. Better anyway.” I spin my coffee mug around. “So do you have any plans for April?”

“April?” He leans back in the settee. “I don't know, why?”

“You want to go to Paris with me?”

“Paris?” He looks suspicious. “It wouldn't have anything to do with a certain annoying what's-his-name, would it?”

“Yes. I want you to go to the wedding with me.”

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because you're my boyfriend, of course. It said Dr. Goldman and Guest.”

He raises his eyebrows, staring at me in amiable disbelief.

“Come on, it'll be fun! We can eat some croissants, see the Louvre…Hey, didn't you hear? I came into some money. So the trip's on me. Consider it a cultural experience.”

He crosses his arms, his biceps bulging against his sweater. “So you're saying you want me to travel thousands of miles to make your ex-boyfriend jealous?”

I pause a moment. “Yes, that is precisely what I'm saying.”

He considers it. “Well, okay then. I guess we're going to Paris.”

C
hristmas lights twinkle down Elmwood as we drive off to the temple.

It's cold, colder than it was last year when my mother died. At that time, it still felt like fall, like the weather was holding out until the official winter solstice. So the snow at her funeral surprised us. Even in Buffalo, we weren't ready for it yet.

Scotty greets us as soon as we walk in. He and Mike shake hands with warmth, genuinely pleased to see each other. Scotty and Jean Luc tolerated each other. There's a difference.

“We're not late, are we?” I ask, walking past the rows of royal-blue seats (which look more comfortable than they feel, especially after you've been fasting all day, which is when I usually sit in them).

“No, no,” Scotty says, sitting back down. “The cantor's here, and the rabbi's around somewhere.” We sit in silence while the congregants, mostly elderly, file in, leaning on canes and walkers, hair silver and mussed from wool hats, their bulky coats half unzipped. They smile at us, the young people, then find their seat. Mike (who told me he hasn't been in a temple since seventh grade, for a Bar Mitzvah) appears completely at ease waiting in the pew, his dark-gray suit coat a touch snug in the shoulders. The soft plinging of guitar strings emerges from the pulpit. The rabbi leans toward his guitar like he's listening to a secret. Finally he stops tuning, walks up to the bimah, and we begin.

The service flies by. The prayers fall in an easy order: praying, davening, greeting the Sabbath bride. We sing, Mike in a deep baritone. The deep blue of the stained glass darkens with the night; the yellow glass sun mellows to a burnt orange. Scotty goes up to recite a prayer for Mom and then walks back down the center aisle to stares, his face flushed. When he reaches our seat, he puts the prayer book down, his hand trembling. It takes me back to his Bar Mitzvah all those years ago, his face young and nervous but triumphant—a real man.

“Good job,” I whisper, and he raises his eyebrows with relief.

I can't believe it's been a year already. A year spinning by in the blink of an eye, all blending together: the spooky Halloween decorations (formally approved or not), Thanksgiving with Arthur gnawing his purloined turkey leg under the table, Christmas lights twinkling down the street. Signposts of our lives that go by, year after year, until we don't notice them anymore. But we are only offered so many of these, these first days of spring, birthday candles, Halloweens. Seventy or eighty harvest pumpkins in our lifetime if we are lucky. Or fifty-five, like my mother, if we are not lucky.

A year ago, we were driving to the gravesite in a limousine that smelled like old cigarettes, past fields dotted with new snow. We stood in the graveyard on an unaccountably pretty day. The sky was bright blue, snow clumped on the junipers, a flock of geese honking above us, reminding me that the earth doesn't stop being beautiful just because you're burying your mother in it. The rabbi chanted a prayer, and with hoarse voices and pale faces, we sang along with him.

We chant together as a congregation now, as we did that day. A prayer of thanks to God. To say that in the midst of our sadness, we still acknowledge God, we still acknowledge that the world is beautiful. I pray for my mother and my father. And my birth mother, who died so many years ago. I pray for Candy, Janita. I pray for Tiffany. And yes, even for Dr. Berringer.

Standing there with my brother and with Mike, I am praying for us all. And for the cracks nobody can fix. The cracks that let the light in. The cracks so big we could fall right through them.