Waiting For Ethan (3 page)

2012

S
unday morning, the day after my parents left for Florida, I awake at 6:45 and lie in bed staring at the ceiling and listening to the constant drip from the bathroom sink. I have asked my landlord to repair it ten times, and each time he has told me he will stop by. I even tried to fix it myself, but only succeeded in making it worse. I bet when I meet Ethan, he will hear it dripping, and without me even asking, he will retrieve the toolbox he keeps in the trunk of his car and fix it.

At 7:15 I give up trying to fall back to sleep and get out of bed. Usually on Sunday mornings my mother's phone call wakes me from a dead sleep at 8:15. “Gina, just calling to see if you would like to go to Mass with me and Dad?”

I have said yes only once, but that one time was enough to make her hopeful enough to keep calling every week. Today, I am thinking that I would like to go to church with my parents. I'd even be willing to put up with my mother's critique of my clothing. “That sweater is too baggy, and your slacks are at least one size too big,” she'd say, shaking her head. “I don't understand why you spend so much time working out and then hide your beautiful figure underneath clothing that swims on you.” She'd give me a few minutes' reprieve before starting in on my hair. “Women your age shouldn't wear their hair so long, and why do you straighten it? People pay good money for curls like yours.” Then she would mutter to herself in Italian, and the only words I'd be able to make out would be “That daughter of mine. What am I going to do with her?”

Yes, at 7:30 in the morning I am already so bored that I would be willing to put up with all that today, but of course I can't. My parents are somewhere on Interstate 95 heading south toward sunny, warm Florida, orphaning me in cold, gray New England for the next four months.

By 7:45 I have flipped through every channel on TV without finding anything that interests me. I hate Sundays in the winter. They are endless. When I finally meet Ethan, I imagine he will wake up before me and sneak down to the convenience store for the paper. Then he'll walk around the corner to the bakery for fresh blueberry muffins and piping hot coffee. We'll sit at the kitchen table for the better part of the morning, him reading the articles out loud, his voice distinguished like a prominent newscaster.

By 9:30 I'm showered, dressed, and going stir-crazy. I think about going to the ten o'clock Mass here in Clayton but quickly reject the idea. I never feel more alone than I do in a crowded church where I am surrounded by families. I don't care what “Dear Abby” says. Church is no place to meet someone. I swear, I am always the only single person there.

The last time I went to church by myself was about three months ago. Father Moynihan was celebrating Mass. His voice is soft and monotonous, making it very hard to pay attention. The baby with the couple next to me started crying. I turned to look and noticed the mother and father appeared to be at least ten years younger than I was. A few rows ahead, a teenage boy repeatedly poked his sister, who was probably about twelve. The mother shot the boy a harsh look. I guessed she was my age. My heart pounded faster. When it came time to give the sign of peace, I turned around to shake hands with the people behind me, and a pregnant woman much younger than me extended her arm. I felt my heart miss a beat. To my right, a woman my age with tween girls offered me her hand. I felt a tightness in my chest. By the time the parishioners were lining up for communion, I had confirmed that all the parents with infants and toddlers were much younger than me and all the mothers and fathers with teenage kids were my age. I was running out of time. I tried to take a deep breath, but a sharp pain ripped through my upper left side. I could feel my heart jumping in my chest and sweat dripping down my back. The woman next to me tapped me on the shoulder. I hadn't noticed it was our row's turn to line up for communion. I leaned back in the pew to let her pass. She stared at me with wide, open eyes. “Are you okay?” she asked.

I nodded, but when the row was empty, I fled to the side aisle and out the back door. Convinced I was having a heart attack, I drove straight to the emergency room. I told the man at the registration desk I was having chest pains. He rushed me into the examining room, where a heavyset blond nurse took my vitals. My heart rate raced to nearly two hundred beats per minute. The doctor gave me medication to slow it down. After, he told me that I had experienced a panic attack. I haven't been back to church since.

 

Now, alone in my apartment, I think of Ajee. I wish I had asked her if Ethan and I would ever have kids. Of course, when she told me about Ethan, I never imagined there was a possibility we wouldn't. I think about Neesha being married and having kids. I wonder what they're like. Then I think of the day the ambulance took Neesha's mother away and how she never came back, how I always felt so powerless to make Neesha feel better. I decide I will send a sympathy card for Ajee.

I bundle up in my ski coat, hat, and gloves and set out to walk the two blocks to the drugstore. The only person I see is a woman running in shorts and a T-shirt. Her face, nose, and ears are bright red. I notice a steady stream of breath escaping her mouth as it hits the cold air.
Hey, it's seven degrees!
I want to shout.
Smarten up.
She must notice me watching her because she looks up and smiles. Now I feel bad for wanting to yell at her.

I spend over an hour in the drugstore looking at sympathy cards. I read every card there, and the one I end up selecting is the first one I looked at. The teenage girl at the cash register is talking to a boy her age who is leaning over the counter toward her. The boy, wearing a Clayton High letter jacket with the number seventeen and the name Ryan stitched on the sleeve, has jet-black hair and bright green eyes. He is exactly the type of boy I would have fallen for in high school. He moves out of the way so I can buy the card and taps the counter next to me with his fingertips while I remove my money from my wallet. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the cashier smile at him. There are no other customers in the store, and I suddenly feel like I'm intruding on their alone time. I give up looking for exact change and hand over three dollar bills.

On the walk back to my apartment, I think about my high school boyfriend, Kyle Nolan. For five months, Kyle tried to convince me to go all the way, and for five months I resisted. Six days before the prom, he broke up with me to take a date who was a sure thing. I remember we were sitting in his parents' station wagon in my driveway. There was something wrong with the catalytic converter, and the car smelled like rotten eggs. I was trying not to breathe in the fumes. Kyle stared straight ahead at my garage. “We're all staying at the Sheraton. Unless you tell me that you are going to stay there with me, and, you know, do it, I think I should take someone else.”

I let out a deep breath and clenched my hands into tight fists, thinking about all the times Kyle had told me he loved me. How I had meant it when I said it back to him. I had even been planning to sleep with him on prom night. Idiot. “Who are you going to take?” My voice was much softer than usual.

He kept staring straight ahead. “Jodi Learner.”

Jodi had slept with seven of the starting nine on Westham High's baseball team. I tried to think of something clever to say. Nothing came to me, but later that night as I unsuccessfully struggled to fall asleep, I came up with three great lines. I got out of the car, slammed the door, and stomped up the driveway, all the while hoping that Jodi would give Kyle one of the several sexually transmitted diseases she was certain to have.

The night of the prom I stayed home alone watching
Designing Women
reruns. Even my parents had plans that night. When
Designing Women
ended, I called Neesha in Texas. Ajee answered the phone and told me Neesha was out with friends. Ajee must have sensed that I was upset because she asked me what was wrong. I told her about being dumped days before the prom.

She clicked her tongue. “Oh Bella, I am so sorry.”

“Thanks, Ajee.” I felt stupid I'd told her.

“Bella, if it makes you feel any better, Ethan did not attend his prom, either.”

“How do you know that?”

She laughed. “I just know things, Bella.”

“Well, when will he be here? When will I meet Ethan?”

“That I do not know, but you must wait.”

Once I get home, I stare blankly at the inside of the sympathy card, trying to think of something to write. I feel my grip on the pen tightening as nothing comes to me. I decide it will be easier to compose the message on my computer and transcribe it to the card. I open a Word document and stare at the blinking cursor on the empty white screen.

“Dear Neesha,” I begin. Dear? I backspace and delete the words. They're too formal. “Hey, Neesha, bet you're surprised to hear from me?” Too casual. I try again and settle on “Hello, Neesha,” and then delete the “Hello” and go back to “Dear.” Now what? I get up, walk to the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and return to my desk. Five minutes later, I still haven't typed another word. I return to the refrigerator for an apple. Ten minutes later, when I toss the core into the trash, the only words on my screen are still “Dear Neesha.”

How can it be so hard to think of something to say to someone I talked nonstop with until the age of fourteen? We used to sit next to each other on the bus on the way home from school, walk home from the bus stop together, and the minute we got inside our houses, we'd call each other. “How in the world can you have anything left to say to her?” my mother would ask. But there was always more because whatever thought popped in my head came out my mouth to Neesha's ears. I have never confided with anyone else as much since.

Okay, Gina. This shouldn't be so hard. Offer condolences about Ajee.
“I was sorry to learn of Ajee's passing,” I write. “I always found her enchanting, and you and she are part of my best childhood memories.” I read it back to myself—a little corny, but it will do. What else? Of course, ask about her husband and children. “I imagine your husband looks like a grown-up version of Josh Levine,” I write. Will she even remember who Josh Levine is? Of course she will. He's the first boy she ever kissed.

How do I end? “I hope you'll write back, Gina.” No, that's almost like begging. “Love, Gina.” Love, we haven't spoken in almost twenty years. I decide to go with “Your old friend, Gina Rossi.” Under it, I add my e-mail address. Then, before I lose my nerve, I walk the few blocks to the post office to mail the card.

S
ince my parents left for Florida three weeks ago, I have been working twelve-hour days. I am a senior editor at TechVisions, a leading market research firm in New England. All day long I fix other people's mistakes so that our clients never know the analysts whom they pay six figures to solve their business problems don't know the difference between
it's
and
its
;
their
,
there
, and
they're
;
sight
,
site
, and
cite
; and so on. Our customers want to know how their markets will perform and where they'll be able to earn the biggest market share. Honestly, I think they would have better luck getting this information from someone like Ajee, who would probably charge a lot less and make more accurate predictions.

I'm pretty sure the analysts just make up their forecasts. Last spring, for example, one of our top analysts boldly declared the technology market was over the worst of the economic slump. Based on this advice, TechVisions hired twenty-five new employees. Two weeks before Christmas the market was still underperforming so TechVisions laid off 30 percent of its workforce and surrendered 50 percent of its office space. The analyst who inaccurately predicted the rebound got to keep his job. Eight of ten editors did not. Luci Chin and I are the lucky ones who survived, and by lucky I mean that since the day pink slips were handed out, Luci and I have been forced to share an office the size of a bathroom stall and do the work of ten editors.

Luci is thirty-nine and has never worked anywhere but TechVisions. Five years ago when I was interviewing for my job, I had to meet with her before being hired. As I sat in the windowless conference room waiting for her, I envisioned a bookish Chinese woman. Instead, a tall, thin Caucasian woman who looked like she should be walking a fashion runway in Paris sauntered into the room. “I'm Luci Chin,” she said, extending her hand. “Nice suit.” She sounded exactly like the waitress at the Chinese restaurant down the street from my apartment. I desperately searched her features for a hint of something that would reveal she was partially Chinese, but her long auburn hair, bright green eyes, and pale complexion led me to believe she was all Irish. I was so confused by the dichotomy between her name, accent, and appearance that I couldn't concentrate on the questions she was asking. Finally she slammed her hand on the desk. “What the matter?” she asked, sounding more Chinese than ever.

“I'm sorry. You just look so Irish.”

A strand of hair had fallen across her eye. Instead of swiping it away with her hand, she blew it back in place before speaking. “My accent's pretty good, isn't it? It's an imitation of my mother-in-law. I love doing that to people.” She laughed.

I gave her my best look of disapproval, but I was trying really hard not to laugh. “How old are you?”

She laughed but didn't answer.

Two years ago Luci and her husband, Kip, divorced. We all assumed she'd go back to her maiden name, Corrigan. I swear the only reason she hasn't is so that she can keep playing her childish prank on new employees.

When Kip and Luci separated, she called in sick for a week. When she returned to work, she was no longer wearing her rings. “Is everything all right with Kip?” I asked.

There wasn't a hint of emotion in Luci's voice when she answered, “Kip moved out and is no longer an acceptable subject of conversation.”

“What happened?”

“That's between Kip and I.”

“Me. Between Kip and me.” Sometimes I just can't help myself.

Luci rolled her chair back from her desk so hard that it hit the wall behind her and stormed out of the office. We've barely talked about Kip since.

Despite her reluctance to talk about herself, Luci is the best friend I have had since Neesha moved. In fact, sharing an office with her is much how I imagine sharing a room with a sister would have been. Today, when I get to work, I notice a keyboard stained with coffee in the trash next to Luci's desk, yet Luci sits behind her computer, typing away. When I look at my desk, I see that my keyboard is missing. “Give me back my keyboard.”

“Just go to IT and get a new one.” I walk to her desk and rip the keyboard cord out of the monitor. Luci picks up the keyboard and hugs it tightly to her chest. “Just go to IT.”

I yank on the cord. “You go!”

Our manager, Jamie, walks in on our argument. “Gina's trying to steal my keyboard,” Luci whines.

“It's my keyboard.”

Jamie ignores us. “Cooper Allen submitted a report that needs to be at Apple by three today. Which one of you has the bandwidth?” Luci points at me, and just like that, I'm stuck with the rush job.

 

I'm so engrossed editing the report that I don't notice what's happening outside until just after 1 p.m., when Luci stands before me, dressed in her coat, hat, and gloves. “It's snowing really hard.” She uses her keys to point to the window behind me. “I'm leaving before it gets worse. You should, too.”

I turn toward the window. Luci's right. Flakes the size of cotton balls pour from the sky, and a thick white blanket covers the ground. Honest to God, I have no business living in New England. I hate snow, and I especially hate driving in it. I should be in Florida for the winter with my parents.

“They're predicting seventeen inches,” Luci says.

The forecast I heard this morning was two to three inches, but I can see that there is already at least four or five inches out there. Imagine being a meteorologist and everyone knowing when you screw up at work? Of course, if I was wrong as often as our local meteorologists, I certainly wouldn't have a job anymore. “I'll leave as soon as I finish editing Cooper's report.”

“Well, be careful.” Luci leaves without offering to help. That's Luci Chin, my best friend.

Three hours later, the snow comes halfway up my shins as I trudge through the parking lot to my car. Only two other vehicles remain. They are both SUVs that will have no problem negotiating the snowy roads. My sporty little Mazda, on the other hand, was not designed to be driven in conditions like this. It's supposed to be driven with the top down on a road that parallels the ocean.

I hear a
beep
, like someone is unlocking a car, but I don't see anyone. A moment later, one of the SUVs in the parking lot starts. There is still not another soul around. A few minutes later, as I remove the last of the snow from my car, I see a short man wearing a pea coat and gray floppy ski hat walk out of the building. As he gets closer to the running SUV, I realize it's Cooper Allen. He sees me and freezes in his tracks. He doesn't wave. He doesn't say anything. He just stares. Most of the analysts don't have great social skills. I wave, and he approaches me.

“You're not going to try to drive that in these conditions?” He points to my car, which is quickly getting covered in snow again. “You'll never get out of the parking lot.” The analysts are paid a lot of money to have opinions and are therefore never shy about expressing them. “You should have left hours ago. What were you thinking?”

They are also pompous and condescending. I really don't enjoy talking to most of them. “I was thinking I had to finish editing your report.”

He kicks at the snow on the ground with his boots. “So this is my fault?”

“There's no fault to be had. There's nothing wrong.”

“I'll give you a ride.” He takes a few steps toward his SUV. “Come on.”

Honestly, I'd rather walk than be stuck in a vehicle with an analyst, so I ignore him and get in my car, intending to drive away, but my wheels just spin and the car doesn't move. Cooper watches with his arms folded across his chest and a smug look on his face. I'll be damned if I let him give me a ride home. He'll probably lecture me the entire way about how impractical my convertible is. I turn the steering wheel a few times, and the car lurches forward. I wave to Cooper and make my way to the exit.

My two-mile drive to Route 128 takes fifty-two minutes, and the highway is no better. In addition to worrying about maintaining traction in the snow, I have to dodge abandoned cars. A little less than an hour later, I barely make it off the exit ramp. The last several miles of my commute are on surface roads flanked with mini-malls and restaurants. Usually lines of slow-moving traffic clog these roads, but today the streets are eerily quiet. I drive for a minute or so before meeting a steep incline. My car gets stuck near the very start of the climb. I press on the gas and can feel the wheels spinning fiercely on the snow and ice without making contact with the pavement. I try everything, but the car only slides sideways. I see one other car on the road now, a black SUV behind me. The driver leans on the horn and maneuvers around me.

During the next fifteen minutes, only two other vehicles drive by, but neither driver looks in my direction. I take out my cell phone and try to figure out who to call. None of my friends live close by, though. For a moment, I wonder if I could possibly walk the rest of the way, but then I notice how loud the wind is howling and immediately decide against it. Five minutes later, a blue Jeep Cherokee going the other direction drives past. I make eye contact with the driver. A few moments later, the same Jeep pulls in behind me. A man wearing a dark skullcap, gray sweatshirt, and big black gloves runs with his head down toward my car. As he gets closer, I notice big red stains that look like blood on his sweatshirt. He knocks on my window. I am debating whether I should lower it when he opens my car door. In my head, I hear my mother's voice telling me to always lock my car doors.

The slow-falling big snowflakes from earlier in the day are gone, replaced by pellet-like snow falling at a much faster rate. The wind gusts and blows snow directly into the man's face. He leans into my car to get away from the piercing snow pellets. “How far do you have to go?” When his eyes meet mine, they open wide and the color drains from his face. He looks like he's seen a ghost or something. He squints and rolls his head like he's trying to work out a neck cramp.

I lean away from him. “Just up the street and around the corner.”

He nods. “Even if I get you out of here, you won't get far. The conditions are worse up ahead.” He shields his eyes with his hand and looks up and down the street. Finally, he points to a small convenience store. “Let me try to get your car off the road and into that parking lot.”

I hesitate, but I don't see that I have any other option. I step out of the car. Immediately a blast of drifting snow assaults my face. The stranger with the bloody sweatshirt climbs into my driver's seat. I stand to the side, pull my hood as far forward as it will go, and shove my hands into my pockets while watching the tires spin, throwing snow in all directions. The car inches forward and back. The wheels change direction, and again the car inches forward and back. After this occurs several times, the car accelerates forward, and the stranger drives it to the parking lot of the convenience store.

He runs back through the snow to where I am standing, shivering and wet. “Get in the Jeep and I'll give you a ride.” Before I can answer, he opens the driver's door. “Come on before you freeze to death.” I can't believe I'm getting into a car with a stranger in a bloody sweatshirt. I know better.

Empty coffee cups, soda cans, and candy wrappers litter the inside of the Jeep. A toolbox with the name G
REGORY
written in black Magic Marker across the top sits on the passenger seat. I pick it up to move it, but he reaches for it. “That's heavy. Let me get it.” As he takes the toolbox, his gloved hand brushes my thigh. I feel a chill run up and down my spine. The sensation takes me by surprise, but then I rationalize that it's not unusual that I would feel a chill. I've been standing outside in the middle of a nor'easter, for crying out loud.

My cell phone rings. I pull it from my coat pocket. “Where are you? I heard the roads are awful.” All the way in Florida, my mother's up to speed on Boston's driving conditions. That's my mom: always looking for something to worry about.

“Don't worry, I'm safe at home.” I hang up. Gregory smiles. “My mother. I don't want to upset her.”

He nods. “So your family thinks you're safe and sound at home. Meanwhile you're out in a nor'easter, relying on a stranger to get you home safely.”

“What's that on your sweatshirt?”

He looks down at his chest and then looks me in the eye. “Blood from the last girl I helped.” His eye contact does not waver. I swallow hard and take my phone from my pocket again.

“Relax, I'm joking.” He smiles, revealing teeth that a cosmetic dentist would consider a gold mine. “I cut my hand at work.” He takes off his big black glove to reveal a bandage between his thumb and wrist. “Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you.”

His apology seems sincere, but still I'm not taking any chances. I dial Luci's number. Her phone goes straight to voice mail. “Hey, it's me. I got stuck on Route Thirty, but this very nice man named Gregory, driving a blue Jeep, a Cherokee, is giving me a ride.”

I feel him watching me. I turn to look. His eyes, which are incredibly blue, sky-blue, are twinkling. I notice a long scar running vertically through his right cheekbone. It's sexy in a dangerous sort of way. He has a cleft chin. I can't decide if I think he's handsome or scary. If he got his teeth fixed, I would definitely go with handsome.

I put my phone away while he reaches into his pocket and takes out his. He presses a button. “I'm going to be late,” he says. “I'm helping out a stranded motorist. She hasn't told me her name, but she was driving a red Mazda with the license plate 123456 and got stuck on Route Thirty. See ya in about an hour.” He puts his phone back in his pocket and winks.