The Impossible Lives of Greta Wells (2 page)

“Oh hush,” I said. “I’m sorry Nathan had to leave early. But he’s been working, you know.”

“Did you hear me?”

I looked at him, his freckled face, that red mustache. Dark commas beneath his eyes. Thin and scared and quiet, all the fire burnt away inside him. Instead of answering, I said, “Look at the ice on all the trees!”

He let Lady sniff at a fence. “You’ll make Nathan dress up in my old Halloween costume.”

“The cowgirl.”

He laughed. “No, Ethel Mermaid. You can sit him in an armchair and feed him drinks. He’ll like that.”

“You didn’t like our birthday?” I said. “I know it wasn’t much. Could you please teach Alan to bake a cake?”

“Our birthday cheers me up.” We walked along, looking up at silhouettes in windows. “Don’t neglect Nathan.”

The light caught the ice on the trees, electrifying them.

“It’s been ten years. Maybe he could use a little neglect,” I said, holding his arm to steady him.

On the cold winter street, I heard Felix whisper, “Look there’s another one.”

He nodded in the direction of a hair salon that had always graced the corner. In the window, a sign:
CLOSED FOR BUSINESS
. My brother stood for a moment while Lady considered the tree. Felix said simply, “Gone home.”

That was the phrase: journal of a plague year. The dog-grooming salon. The bead shop. The bartender and the tailor and the waiter down at the Gate. All of the
CLOSED FOR BUSINESS
signs. And if you asked about that waiter they’d say: “He’s gone home.” The bartender with the bird tattoo: “Gone home.” The boy who lived upstairs and set off the fire alarm: “Gone home.” Danny. Samuel. Patrick. So many ghosts you couldn’t make out the Indians even if they wailed for lost Manahatta.

A loud bang; a woman had come out of the building: frizzy dyed black hair, trench coat. “You assholes are killing the trees!”

“Hi,” said Felix sweetly. “We’re your neighbors, it’s nice to meet you.”

She shook her head, staring at Lady, who was preparing to squat in the frosted grass. “You’re ruining my city,” she said. “Get your dog out of here.”

Her tone was so harsh we were both shaken; I could feel my brother’s hand clenched in my pocket. I tried to think of something to do or say other than just turning to go. She crossed her arms, defiant.

Felix said, “I’m sorry, but . . . I don’t think girl dogs hurt the trees.”

“Get your dog out of here.”

I watched my brother’s face. So gaunt, barely a reminder of the strong, grinning twin I’d always known, the flushed pink face now worn away. I gripped his arm and began to pull him away; he didn’t need this, not on our birthday. But he would not budge. I saw him building up the courage to say something. I had assumed he had used up all his reserves of courage in the past year.

“All right,” he said at last, reining in Lady, who stumbled. “But I have one question.”

The woman smiled smugly and raised an eyebrow.

He managed a grin. And then he said something that made her take a single step back as we disappeared around the corner and began our nervous laughter together on that cold night of our last birthday. I carried what he said through the tough weeks that followed, then the awful months, the half a year of hell that drove me deeper into sadness than I had ever known. Standing there firmly, calmly, asking that woman a question:

“When you were a little girl, madam,” he said, gesturing to her, “was
this
the woman you dreamed of becoming?”

I
T ALL CAME
faster than we could plan for. One day Felix was talking cheerfully about the books I had brought him. And then the next morning I was getting a call from Alan saying, “He’s going, it’s too fast now, I think we have to—” And I was rushing over to their apartment to find Felix going in and out of lucidity. Apparently his joints were so swollen it hurt to move, and the pain was beyond reckoning; the headaches had returned with severity, and the last bout of antibiotics had done no good. We stood on either side of him asking over and over, “Do you want to go?” and it was over twenty minutes later that my brother was able to open his eyes and hear us. He could not speak, but he nodded. I could tell from his eyes he was there, and knew.

P
ATCHIN
P
LACE, ALONE
with Nathan, mourning my brother. The snow fell heavily upon the gates that winter, and weighed down the maples outside my window. Ruth took Felix’s bird, and I listened to it chirping in the apartment below, staring out, as I did, at a birdless winter day. Felix was wrong about so many things, but he was right about Nathan: I should not have neglected him.

The man I lived with but never married, my Dr. Michelson, a smart and gentle man, smiling in a red-brown beard and glasses. Long, narrow face, lined with worry at the eyes below a receding heart-shaped hairline. When we first met, I had always thought of Nathan as an “older man,” but after I turned thirty the truth dawned on me that he was only eight years older, and that as time went on the gap would close, until we were both equally old, and the revelation came with a sadness that I would lose something I “had” on him. At forty, he had a slightly sad, pleasantly smiling demeanor that led people to say, “But you’re so young!” What they meant was that he had not grown bitter. He always closed his eyes and smiled at that remark. I suppose it’s because he was what he’d always said he would be. He was a doctor, loved by a woman. He lived in Greenwich Village. Despite the gray in his beard, what I felt kept him young were the childhood hobgoblins he retained as pets: his fear of sharks, even in a swimming pool; his fear of mispronouncing “dour.” He laughed each time he caught himself, and told me so. Who knows how many others went untold? But I grew to love them as intimates, and when after years I heard him saying “dour” correctly on a few separate occasions, it was as if an old one-eyed cat had died.

You could sum up his personality by the phrase he spoke so soothingly, at every difficult occasion in our courtship: “I leave it to you.” Somehow, it was the antidote to all my fears. Was I spending too much time with Felix, and not enough with him? “I leave it to you.” Should I stay late at work or attend his mother’s party? “I leave it to you.” That phrase drained me of worry; I loved him for it. He became my companion, for ten years. In those last months of Felix’s life, however, Nathan was a ghost I could not see. I ignored him and brushed him aside, and for a while he understood. And then he did not understand. He was so kind, but when crossed could just as easily be cold. And then I lost him.

Just a few months after Felix’s death, I discovered he had taken a lover. I followed Nathan one evening and found myself before a brick building, the zigzag smile of a fire escape, seeing the silhouettes of my lover and his young woman. Who knows how long I stood there? How long does one stand before a scene of dread? It had begun to snow, in tiny dust flakes, and this lengthened how the light fell from the window onto the street.

I will always wonder if I did the right thing. I stepped away from the building and I walked back home, and warmed myself within the solitary bed, and never mentioned it to him. With everything going on, with all the grief I had plugged up, I could easily understand his need for ease and attention, for playing husband to this play wife—trying out another life, in a way—and I said to myself, “He will come home to me, not her.” After all, we had shared so many things, including the years before gray hair. Who else would ever fit him so neatly?

He did come home to me. He did leave her. I know it because one night a few weeks later, when I sat in Patchin Place reading a book while white-bean soup simmered on the stove, still an hour away from being ready, he came home streaked with rain, his face very red and puffy, and something distant in his eyes, as if he’d witnessed a murder. Beard gleaming with droplets. He said hello and kissed my cheek. “I’ll take off these wet things,” he said, and went into the other room and closed the door.

I heard a violin quartet, not what he usually listened to, but he must have tuned the radio to anything loud enough. But it was not loud enough. I heard it beneath the music, as he sat hidden from me in the other room, the sound he could not control and yet desperately wanted to hide: the sobs of a broken heart.

In some scene I can barely imagine, he had said some final farewell and kissed her, made love some final time, and pushed his way out the door as she sought for the right thing to say, the thing that would make him stay there. Make him leave me instead of her. He held the doorknob with one shaking hand; they stared at each other. Did he cry yet? For she did not find the words—and here he was. Sitting in the other room, sobbing like a boy. Violins dervishing around him. And here I was, in my chair with my book and the big brass lamp casting a hoop of gold across my lap. Knowing what he had done. Wanting to tell him that I was angry and hurt and grateful. The violins made their bumpy way down the octave. And, after a while, Nathan came out of that room and asked, “Do you want a drink? I’m making one for myself, a whiskey.” There with the grief so plain on his face. How many weeks, months had it been? How many phone calls, letters, nights had he given to her? Over like that, like breaking a neck. “Yes,” I said, putting down my book, “the soup will be ready soon,” and we drank and fed ourselves and did not talk about the great thing that had just happened.

The real surprise was that, a few months later, he left me after all. In a rental car, parked outside the gates, me in the driver’s seat.

“Stay with me, Nathan.”

“No, Greta, I can’t anymore.”

His hand on the car door, choosing the words that would end our lives together. It did not really matter what they were. I picture myself at that dire moment: pale in the streetlight, tears caught in my nearly invisible lashes, red hair recently cut short in a last bid for change, lips parted as I tried to think of anything left to say. Door handle open, wind rushing in, the last few minutes—I realized the flash of his glasses in the streetlight might be the last I ever saw of him.

“What am I supposed to do?” I shouted from the car.

He stared at me coldly for a moment, then touched the door and said, before he shut it, “I leave it to you.”

“T
RY HYPNOSIS
,”
MY
aunt Ruth counseled me, rubbing my temples with oil. “Try est. Try anything but shrinks, darling.” She was my sole companion in those months. I’m sure my father would not have approved of her visits; he always found his sister flighty, selfish, uncontrolled, the dangerous artist who had to be stopped. The kind of woman, he once told me, who would yell “theater” in a crowded fire. A comfort, an ally, but she knew nothing of my mind.

Everybody had advice. Try acupuncture, they would tell me when I roused myself for a party. Try acupressure. Try yoga, try running, try pot. Try oats, try bran, try colonics. Quit smoking, quit dairy, quit meat. Quit drinking, quit TV, quit being self-centered. The psychiatrist I found at last, Dr. Gilleo, talked to me endlessly about my dead parents, my childhood memories of golden dogs running on golden afternoons with my brother, and found the ordinary thorns of an ordinary life. Was it so bad, I asked him, to be sad because sad things happened? “There are a number of new antidepressants,” he said. “And we will try them.” I did try them, from Ambivalon to zimelidine. And still they could not shake the nightmare: of answering my door and seeing Felix there, in his absurd mustache, asking to come in, and me telling him he couldn’t. “Why not?” he asked. Nightly I told him, “Because you’re dead.”

Ruth rubbing my temples, kissing my forehead. “There there, darling. It will pass. It will pass.” Adding, unhelpfully as always, “I think what you need is a lover.”

It is almost impossible to capture true sadness; it is a deep-sea creature that can never be brought into view. I say that I remember being sad, but in truth I only remember mornings when that person in the bed—the person in which I was contained—could not wake up, could not go to work, could not even do the things that she knew would save her, and instead did only what was bound to destroy her: alcohol, and forbidden cigarettes, and endless lost black hours of loneliness. I’m tempted to distance myself from her, to say, “Oh, that wasn’t me.” But that was me, staring at the wall and longing to crayon-draw all over it and not even having the will for that. Not even the will for suicide. That was me in my room, looking out the window on Patchin Place as the maples turned yellow into autumn.

You could already make out my neighborhood heightening its mood in preparation for Halloween. Store windows were filled with silver-painted nude fauns, great glowing puppets, skeletons and witches of every type. Hollowed-out pumpkins lined the gate of Patchin Place; I felt you could lay my head down among them. The streets looked lonely. I looked lonely as I made my way each morning to work, and each evening home to a slighter, darker twilight, my street trading all its colors for blue, while from the west came the bright, streaming lavender sunset on the Hudson. It lit up all the sky, the tall apartment towers black and jagged against it. That is where I lived. In the fall of 1985. How I longed to live in any time but this one. It seemed cursed with sorrow and death.

How clearly I could hear my brother asking me from the grave, Was this the woman you dreamed of becoming? Was this the woman?

And then, one day, tapping his pencil on his pad, my dear old Dr. Gilleo: “There is one more thing we can try.”

T
HE DOCTOR
’
S OFFICE
was not quite what I expected. Perhaps because it was Halloween, I thought it would look something like Dr. Frankenstein’s laboratory, carved out from the side of a cliff. Instead, it was an ordinary brownstone that shared a courtyard with what I remembered as an old grammar school; now, it had become part of the medical suite, and nurses stood in the courtyard, smoking. I sat for a few minutes in a plaid chair, across from an old lady with a bright green shawl and a knitting bag, and then was told Dr. Cerletti would see me now. The sign on the door:
CERLETTI, ELECTROCONVULSIVE THERAPY
.