The Ruining (12 page)

FORTyFIvE MINuTEs LATER, we reached our destination: Dolores Park, a beautiful expanse of grass in Mission Dolores. We found the perfect spot to plop down in the grass: secluded enough that it felt like its own private oasis among a sea of picnic blankets and sheltered by both a palm tree and an oak. The city rose up beyond our grassy island, making the contrast of elements all the more stark. I had to laugh; the city was so unexpected, a hodgepodge of hundreds of completely different elements that somehow blended together to form a beautiful, chaotic picture. It was a Chex mix of a city.

“Fooooood,” Owen said then in a low, guttural voice, interrupting my reverie. Apparently all of our making out had made him hungry. “This bad boy needs some.” He grabbed a handful of would-be belly (he didn’t have an ounce of fat on him) and squished it together in a mass. “Its name’s Garth,” he said. “A derivative of the Latin Girthius maximus.”

I rolled my eyes. How could he switch from super sexy to childish in ten minutes flat? I couldn’t figure out if I thought he was funny right then, or gross and immature. Whatever it was, it was ruining my post-make-out buzz. “You’re getting weird looks from the person at six o’clock,” I informed him.

“That’s not a person,” Owen stage-whispered to me. “It’s only a kid. Hey, what’s up, kid?” Owen waved to a little boy, maybe about four years old, who was clutching his mother’s fist and staring at us while his mom chatted away on her cell phone. My buzz was fading . . . fading . . . gone.

You’ve damaged him.”
“As long as I’ve changed yours for the better . . .” Owen let
his sentence hang between us like a half-teasing, half-serious
promise. And there they were: the tingles. Back again. “So, you never told me,” I said quickly, breaking the silence,
“what it was your mom didn’t like about Libby. I mean, you
told me, but I was totally zoned out. Tell me again?” “Can we please table the Cohen talk for the rest of the
afternoon? I’ve learned my lesson. And besides, I’d way rather
talk about other stuff.”
“Okay,” I said reluctantly. “Like what?” I busied myself putting our sandwiches out on the tray, arranging the cheese and
fruit next to the paper-thin crackers, pouring us each some
sparkling water.
“Like, who were you before you came to California? Where
are you from? What brought you out here? What do you like
to do when you’re not selling your soul to Libby Cohen?” He
could not have asked a more difficult question. So I decided to
do what I always did: deflect it.
“You go first,” I said. “What kind of a guy is a volunteer
EMT? And tell me about your business. I’ve barely heard a word
about that.”
Owen puffed his cheeks and let the air out in a sigh. “Tough
questions,” he said. “Okay, I’ll go. But don’t think you’re getting
off the hook.”
“Don’t worry,” I hedged.
“Okay, so, I guess I’m what you’d call a huge science nerd.”
I burst out laughing. Rugged, tanned, all-American, wholesome, well-rounded Owen? Right.
“No offense,” I told him. “But I can’t picture you hunched
over a beaker.”
“No beakers,” he agreed. “Computers all the way. I don’t know why you’re surprised. I’ll model my wire-rimmed glasses for you later.” I caught myself mid-laugh. It appeared he wasn’t
joking. Suddenly, I was fascinated. I wanted to know everything. “So it’s always been just you and your parents?” I asked. “Yep. Me, my parents, math competitions, science fairs, and
the National Spelling Bee.” At that, I nearly choked on the piece
of cheese I’d been shoving in my mouth.
“No,” I whispered. “You were one of those kids on television? The weird ones?”
“I was,” he said gravely. “It was the seventh grade. I got out
in the fourth round on ‘verisimilitude.’ So stupid,” he groaned,
tossing his head back in a gesture of woe. “I rue that day. Had
I only asked for the origin, I would have won the whole thing.
I knew all the words after that.”
“Do you think your life would have been different if you’d
won?”
“Maybe,” he told me. “Yes, it probably would have been.
What National Spelling Bee winner doesn’t get into Harvard?” I
raised an eyebrow. I didn’t know the answer to that. “But if I’d
won, I wouldn’t have met Rebecca Carver in the crying room.” “What’s the crying room?” I had never known it was possible to be filled with simultaneous dread and glee. “It’s where you go to cry when you miss a word. Rebecca
Carver lost on ‘oscillate.’ The easiest word in the English language.” He shook his head scornfully. “But I didn’t hold it
against her, because she had pretty hair.”
“Naturally.”
“I dated Rebecca long-distance for all of eighth grade. It was very serious. She lived two states away, and she knew how to use a transistor radio. We had dozens of late-night conversa
tions in Morse code.”
“You’re joking.”
“Maybe,” he grinned. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” His
hand inched close to mine on the blanket.
“I don’t know any Morse code,” I confessed.
“I can teach you.”
“I don’t want to know Morse code.” His pinky crossed over
mine.
“I like you despite your shortcomings.” He leaned closer,
his eyelids drooping a little as he looked at my lips, then my
eyes, then my lips. I could feel his breath on my cheek. I
ducked my head, letting his cheek touch mine. Then I turned
back toward him, and his lips were there, waiting. This time,
when his mouth met mine I knew what to expect, but it was no
less exciting. I wasn’t as nervous as before, and so I could pay
attention to the pressure of his tongue as it moved with mine.
I sensed the whole of him: his smell, his taste, the roughness
on his chin, the way his bravado hid a tentative quality that I
hadn’t known he possessed. When he pulled away, I leaned
my forehead against his. My heart thudded wildly, and all I
wanted was a world where that moment could freeze forever.
He trailed his fingers up and down my arm, and goose bumps
rose in reaction all over my body.
“Now you,” he said softly. “Tell me everything.”
And the moment was over.
“I can’t follow that,” I said softly.
“Try.” The way he said it, I knew it wouldn’t matter what I
said. I could have sailed across the world on my own or spent
high school staring at a blank wall, and it wouldn’t have mattered. He liked me because he liked me, and nothing I did or
didn’t do before we met would make a difference.
“I grew up in Detroit,” I told him. “In a two-bedroom house
the size of your kitchen. My father left when I was three. He
ran off with a waitress from the Steak ’n Shake down the street,
where he liked to go binge-eat after he binge-drank. My mother
raised me and my sister Lissa on her own for a little while . . .” And so the story unraveled. I talked and he listened . . . and
listened . . . and listened. He didn’t pry, or look sorry for me,
or even look surprised. Somewhere in the middle, though, he
laced his fingers through mine and pulled me back against the
blanket we’d spread out. While I was talking, he cradled my
head against his chest. That’s how we stayed until I was done.
And when I was done, nothing awful happened. Everything
was much the same. Except when we pulled our hands apart,
an invisible net remained, binding us together even though our
bodies were no longer touching. That was the only difference.
It wasn’t at all what I expected. It was much, much better.

“Oh god,” I said, sitting up. “Owen! Wake up.” He sat up and rubbed his eyes.
“Wow,” he said, looking at the cheese. “Damn. I was really looking forward to eating that.”
“Well at least we left the rest of the food covered,” I said, relieved.
“Yeah, because I’m starving.” He started unwrapping the containers eagerly. “Let’s eat quick before it gets dark.” He was right—the sun was setting fast, and as if by magic, dozens of white lights had appeared on the bases of the palm trees bordering the park. It was lovely.
“Wow, you prepared quite a spread here,” Owen said.
“Most of it was pretty much ready-made. I just put the sandwiches together.”
“What’s this?”
“Libby made banana bread last night. Told me to eat it. Begged me, really. I think she’s a little weight-obsessed. She’s one of those people who makes things and then makes other people eat them.”
“There are things I could say now, but in the spirit of not talking about the Cohens, I decline to remark.”
“I appreciate it,” I replied, fixing him with a stern look.
“So, hey, right after this they’re showing a movie at the other end of the park.” Owen unwrapped one of the cheeses and set it on the small wooden board I’d packed. “Want to go? It’s outside and free.”
“Oh yeah? That sounds great.”
“It’s one of my favorite things to do in the summer and fall. They put up a huge projector screen. It’s a lot of fun.”
“What are they playing tonight?”
“I’m not sure. I think I heard something about The Muppet Movie, but I could be mistaken.”
“I guess it doesn’t matter,” I said without thinking.
“Why is that?” Owen had a smug grin on his face. I was getting the feeling he was starting to enjoy my awkward, completely un-smooth self.
“I just meant that I’m not picky about movies,” I said lamely. I quickly spread some cheese on a cracker and stuffed it in my mouth in an effort to forcibly eliminate awkward language from the conversation. The cheese had a strange, woodsy aftertaste that I wasn’t crazy about. I broke off a hunk of the banana bread and popped it in my mouth to chase it. That, on the other hand, was delicious: moist, buttery, and sprinkled with chocolate chips.
“Anticipating as much, I brought a bottle of wine with me,” Owen told me. He took a huge bite of his sandwich and let out a big sigh of satisfaction. I was about to tell him exactly what I thought of his confidence when I felt my throat tighten. I swallowed hard, forcing the last chunk of bread down my throat. But the feeling got worse even after I’d swallowed the food; it felt as though a fist had reached within me and was squeezing my esophagus. I couldn’t breathe.
“Annie? Are you okay?” Owen sat up from his relaxed position atop the blanket, his eyes wide with concern.
I nodded. Then shook my head. I wasn’t okay. Panic was descending too quickly for me to think. My whole body felt heavy and itchy, even as my head grew lighter. Owen’s voice began to fade. I struggled harder for air, but the narrow tube in my throat had closed to what felt like a pinhead. Like mounds of cotton had been stuffed down me until there wasn’t any room for oxygen to seep through. I’d never been more terrified.
Lissa flashed through my head, as she always did. But this time, her breathing became my own. Her body, struggling to stay afloat, was my body. Her lungs and mine were the same. Together, we couldn’t breathe. We were drowning.
And then I realized: I was about to die.

“I ONLy wIsH yOu’d INdICATEd that you were allergic to nutmeg,” Libby said the next day, her face looking more drawn than I’d ever seen it. “I would have omitted it from the recipe. My god.”

“I did,” I insisted. “At least, I thought I did.” I could have sworn I’d mentioned it, but my head was so foggy that I couldn’t be certain of anything anymore. My throat still felt swollen and scratchy, but the welts in my mouth had completely disappeared. Yet I couldn’t argue about it. I didn’t feel like suffering Libby’s anger. I was too exhausted. I’d been allergic to nutmeg for as long as I could remember, so it was weird that I hadn’t been clearer about it with the Cohens. I always made a big deal out of it and even wore the information on a thin, silver ID bracelet, which is probably how Owen knew exactly what was happening. Nutmeg, for me, was the culinary equivalent of being bitten by a black widow. It could very easily have become lethal. It was actually kind of miraculous that he’d gotten me to the emergency clinic on time. From there, once they’d administered antitoxins, I’d been transported to the hospital, where I’d spent the night.

Now I was back at the Cohens’. I felt extremely exhausted. But more than that, something like depression was wrapping its talons around me. I’d had to skip classes today because of the episode. I’d skipped classes before because Libby had needed me at the last minute. I was falling behind at school and failing at my job, and it was only the first semester. I could feel everything—the life I’d waited so long to live—slipping from my grasp.

“Don’t.” Libby’s voice was cold. “Don’t make excuses. And don’t think you can blame it on me. We have done everything to make you feel welcome. Everything! We have overlooked every incident that should have given us pause. We’ve accepted your eccentricities, we’ve—”

“What . . . eccentricities?” My voice was faint-sounding. It came from another universe a million miles away.
“The sleepwalking, the way you whisper to yourself, all of it! Don’t you think this worries me? You’re sleeping under our roof, handling our children . . . it’s unthinkable! Yet we’ve made every single concession. I have actually fought with my husband over whether to keep you on. And now this.” I couldn’t focus; her words were like thick sludge I couldn’t wade through. Sleepwalking? I’d never sleepwalked, not that I knew of. And although I did have a habit of talking to myself on occasion, I never did it around other people. Or at least not usually. And I didn’t remember any times where they’d caught me doing it when I thought I was alone. Her words weren’t making sense.
“But remember that first time we talked?” I insisted. “During my phone interview. You asked me if there was anything you should know about me, and I mentioned my allergy. I mention it everywhere I go, anytime I eat anything I don’t prepare myself. Maybe you forgot?”
“I would never forget something like that.” Libby looked enraged. “It must have been some other interview you’re thinking of.” But there had only been one interview.
I fidgeted in the navy blue, velvet armchair in which I sat, my fingers trembling more than they should under the intensity of Libby’s gaze. She tapped the arm of her chair impatiently with carefully manicured nails. Tap. Tap. Tap. Before Lissa died, back when she was a concerned parent, my mother had always made me tell everyone about my allergy. She was certain there’d be nutmeg slipped in somewhere, and she was constantly afraid that I’d unknowingly ingest it. She used to keep an EpiPen zipped in my backpack as a kid, but I’d stopped carrying one once I’d gotten older and started trusting myself to stay away from complex foods that might contain the spice.
“I’m just not sure what to do with you,” Libby said, after a long silence. “How could you blame me for this, Nanny? We’re hitting so many bumps lately. So, so many rough spots. I just don’t know how to handle you anymore.”
“You can fire me,” I said. “Just tell me if that’s what you want to do.” I couldn’t stand the torture of sitting there, not knowing.
“Oh, but I can’t,” Libby said softly. “I can’t let you go when you owe me so much. You have quite the debt to pay, Nanny. Think of all I’ve done for you! All we’ve done, but also all the ways I’ve stuck up for you. Walker wanted to fire you after the incident with our files. But you already knew that, didn’t you?” Her voice took on a soothing, almost melodic quality. “Yes, you knew that, because you’re trickier than you look. You slip around here looking wide-eyed and innocent, but you and I know the truth. All you’ve caused is hardship. No, Nanny. You’re not going anywhere. You’re staying with us as long as we need you. And I envision that being for a long while. You owe me that.”
I shuddered, beginning to cry softly. It all felt so surreal, like a nightmare. I was still exhausted from the drugs they’d given me at the hospital, and confused by my memories of what I’d told Libby versus what she was saying I’d omitted. Maybe she was angry with me, maybe I’d made some mistakes, but she’d never have purposely given me a substance that could have been lethal. So either I was forgetting or she was forgetting. But right then, it felt as if my brain had turned on itself; I doubted everything I thought I knew. There was a reverse side to everything, other possibilities that hadn’t been explored. What I thought was the truth no longer felt certain at all. I felt my body clench up. The tears trickled down my cheeks, leaving salty, itchy streaks everywhere they touched.
“Nanny,” Libby soothed. “It’s okay. Maybe I came down too hard on you. It’s okay.” She rubbed my back with one hand, using the other to wipe away my tears. Despite myself, I leaned into her.
“It’s Annie,” I said quietly, so quietly I wasn’t sure she could hear. “Please call me by my name.”
“I always do,” Libby told me carefully. “I always use your name.” I relaxed against her, crying harder, and she wrapped her arm tightly around me, resting her chin on my head. “Don’t worry,” she soothed. “We’re not going to fire you. We’ll keep you here, Nanny. We can help you. I just need you to work with me. Just trust me, and it will all get better, I promise. You need to stop fighting me. You just need to let me take care of you.” I nodded as she stroked my hair, pushing back damp, sweaty tendrils from my face. I didn’t protest when she led me upstairs and put me to bed as though she were the nanny and I was the child.
I didn’t even ask her what had happened to the paisleyprinted wallpaper that I’d grown to love; why it had been stripped off, revealing angry blue paint below; and why there were large, plastic-encased tubes of yellow wallpaper resting on my floor. Instead, I let myself drift to sleep.