What We Leave Behind (14 page)

I knew in those afternoons that our time was limited. Emily would be returning from Italy, and he was scheduled to return to Boston in the fall, or upon his father’s death, whichever came first. I selfishly prayed that Adam would hold on a long, long time.

The phone was ringing when I stepped into the house. I ran into my room, reaching for the shrilling sound that bellowed from my bedside table. I knew instinctively who it was, picking up the receiver and saying, “You’re going to get me punished calling this late.”

“That never seemed to bother you before.”

“Well, lucky my mom’s not here. She’s at Harold’s.”

“Paul Bunyan? Are things getting serious? Maybe I should come over.”

“Very funny,” I laughed, thinking there wasn’t anything funny about that.

“Did you catch the bouquet?” he asked. I had gone to a wedding for one of the nurses at the hospital.

“I hid in the bathroom when she threw it. What a chauvinistic ritual, like we’re all so desperate to get married. I’m
never
getting married.”

“Never say never,” he warned. “You’ll have your choice of men.”

I held the phone in one hand, his attempt at sweet talk muffled by the sound of the dress I was taking off. If he could see through the wire, he would see my nakedness, but I held onto the illicit thought and opted instead for a tumble on my bed, wrapping the crisp sheets around me, along with my little seductive secret.

“Did you dance with anyone?” he asked, trying to act nonchalant.

“You know I don’t dance.”

“I have firsthand experience that tells me you’re lying.”

“It’s none of your business,” I said, flattered at first, but hearing an intonation that bordered on territorial.

“No one’s a better partner than I am.”

Something inside of me was pleased and bothered by him saying this, but before I could analyze why, “Is that what all the girls tell you?” slipped right out my mouth.

“There’s only one,” he said, and before he could take it back, there was a deafening silence.

“Are you in bed yet?” he asked, ignoring the quiet.

“Maybe,” I said.

“Let me talk to George. He’ll tell me.”

“He’s not here. I gave him to one of the kids at the hospital,” I lied, fingering the head of the baby monkey he had won for me at the Santa Monica pier.

“Give him a hug from me,” he said, and then, “What’s the matter, Jessie? You don’t sound like yourself.”

Unable to contain my agitation, I said, “What do you want? Why are you calling this late?”

“I was thinking about you.”

Silence.

“Jess, are you there? What’s the matter?”

I didn’t know. All I knew was that I was majorly pissed off, and I got up from the bed, found my shirt and underpants in a drawer, and put them on.

“I’m just tired,” I said, knowing I could never tell him just how much it ate at me, the longing to be everything to him.

“Well, then, Grace should get some rest.”

“Who’s Grace?”

“You, princess.”

“I’m not a princess,” I said, annoyed he would even suggest that, annoyed at myself for pushing him to want to hang up.

“You need sleep. You’re very cranky.”

“Good night,” I whispered, and before I put the phone down, he said, “Let’s go to Laguna tomorrow. I’ll teach you to surf.”

The boy had no clue, just oblivious.

“Good night, Jonas,” I repeated.

“Good night, Grace, I’ll see you in my dreams.”

We ended up spending the entire next day together. It began with breakfast at Jerry’s Deli (his idea), lunch overlooking the pool at the Beverly Hills Hotel (my idea to sneak in), and dinner in Santa Monica at I Cugini (a mutual agreement). In between, we walked along Melrose Avenue, where I bought a denim skirt and he picked out a pair of jeans. After, we stopped for some frozen yogurt at Humphrey’s, and then paid a visit to Sharper Image, where he watched me test out most of the equipment while he stood back in horror, pretending not to know me. It ended with a beautiful view of the sunset along the coast.

We hadn’t planned to do all that; the day just took hold of us, and we didn’t resist it. On the drive home, we were talking about things we were afraid of.

“My biggest fear is to look out my window at night and see someone staring back at me.”

“That’s creepy,” he said. “I’m afraid I’ll screw up on some major important research.”

“I’m afraid of driving.” We both laughed.

There was a quiet pause before he said, “I’m afraid my father won’t make it much longer.”

“I’m afraid of that too,” I said. “You know what else I’m kind of afraid of?”

“And here I thought you weren’t afraid of anything.”

I turned to face him, because before this thought I’d been watching the road ahead of us. “I’m afraid to say good-bye.”

“To my dad?” he asked.

“Well, yeah, him too, but that wasn’t what I meant.”

He studied the road like I had done only moments before, not saying anything, just reaching for my hand and holding it in his own. He didn’t look at me; he didn’t have to.

Jonas was commended in Boston for some research he had done at Harvard. He flew out for the week for a special ceremony with all the other brainiacs. I only knew this because Amy had told me one afternoon at the hospital while we were bonding over chocolate milkshakes. I was proud of myself, though. She never saw the disappointment that crept its way into my face and down to my small intestines.

When he returned the following Sunday night, he called.

“Hey, Grace.”

“Hey yourself,” I said. “How was Harvard?”

“It was nice, actually.  It was good to get away.”

“I would have called to congratulate you, but I didn’t know you were going away.”

“It was unbelievable. I’m sorry I didn’t call you.”

I swallowed the hurt. “It’s okay. You had a lot going on.”

“We had the luncheon and then a few of us left for the Cape for a few days.”

“You sound good,” I commented. “Happy.”

“I’m always happy when I talk to you.”

“My mother got engaged.”

“Already?” he asked. “That went awfully fast.”

No
, I thought,
for you, time always goes fast.  For the rest of us on Earth, it travels at the usual, leisurely pace
. “This is what she’s wanted.”

“You sound upset. Are you okay?”

“Tell me about the award,” I answered, changing the subject.

“Tell me about you. What are you wearing right now?”

It was always the same. In my hunger to be a part of Jonas’s life, I was inquisitive, invasive. He, on the other hand, was seductive and charming. When someone makes you feel like the most important person in the world, it’s tough to be angry at them. While your ego is stroked, you think your heart is full. Minutes later, or even hours, days, the emptiness returns.

“A ski suit,” I replied.

We hung up the phone shortly thereafter, and I turned on the radio as a way to interrupt my inner banter. Jackson Browne was “Running on Empty,”
not knowing what he was hoping to find
, and I whispered the lyrics as my head found my pillow.

“Again!” the children cried out.  “Tell us what happened to Buxbaum and Bixby and Bray!”

I looked up, closed the book, and savored the smiling faces.

Was Dr. Seuss preparing me for the importance of that night? Did he know when writing
Oh, the Places You’ll Go!
how open to interpretation his message would be, how it transcended ages and stages of one’s life?

“Come on, kids,” Nurse Valerie said. “Time for bed. Say thank you to Miss Jessica.”

“Thank you,” they mumbled in unison, but not before little Sabrina cried out, “One more.” She was seated on my lap, five-year-old legs hidden beneath two neon pink casts. I hadn’t admitted it to anyone, but reading to the children twice a week was one of my most enjoyable responsibilities. I liked the way they followed my every word, as if I were the most important person they had ever heard. Sabrina, having been in the hospital about a month, was one of my favorites.

“Next week,” I told her, stroking her silky brown hair. The chocolate eyes looked up at me. “Tuesday?” she asked.

“Yes, Tuesday.”

“But I’ll be going home on Friday.”

“That’s great,” I told her. “Your mommy and daddy can read to you.”

“I want
you
to read to me,” she pleaded, crossing her tiny arms across her chest. When I set the book down on the floor beside us, she just tilted her head back and leaned up against me, making no effort to move; and I’ll tell you, it wasn’t so bad. She had this sweet-smelling hair and soft skin, and even though I wasn’t supposed to, I slipped her a Hershey’s kiss that smelled delicious on her breath.

The other children filed out of the room, some on crutches, some in wheelchairs. Nurse Valerie reached for Sabrina and helped her into her wheelchair.

“Can you come back to the room and tuck me in?” she asked, looking up at me with the most pleading eyes I’d ever seen.

Valerie winked at me and said, “Not tonight, Sabrina. Miss Jessie has to clean up in here, and you, young lady, have to get to bed.” The little girl was distraught. I bent over her and told her a special secret, something funny that made her laugh out loud. She threw her arms around me, hugged me to her, and whispered in my ear, “I love you, Miss Jessie.”

It was when I had begun the treacherous task of cleaning up the empty milk cups and foil wrappers that lay strewn on the floor that I heard a door behind me, and there was Jonas.

“What’s up?” I asked with a smile.

“
Oh, The Places You’ll Go!
One of my favorites.”

I searched behind me, and then back at Jonas, the sly grin across his face. “A Seuss fan? Where were you hiding?”

“Right there,” he said, pointing to the open doorway a few feet from where we were sitting.

“You’re going to be a great mommy one day,” he said.

The reference to a future that didn’t include him was not what I wanted to hear. I straightened myself, the broom perched in one hand, the dustpan in another. He came close to me. I tried to maneuver, but he was invading my personal space, and as usual I pretended that was a bad thing. He just kept watching me, hovering, seemingly very serious. Then he took my chin in his hand and held it up so I had to see his eyes. “Sometimes I don’t know if I should try harder, Jess, or if I should just walk away.”

I began to sweep, rhythmic, premeditated motions that disguised the conflict within. He was waiting for
something
, as if that was a question and not one of the thoughts that happened to slip out of his mouth. When I finished, I set the broom down and took off my striper apron. He spoke again, impatient. “Can I drive you home?”

“I drove with my mom today. Why?”

“It’s a yes or no question.”

There was no pretending this time.

“I’ll meet you out front.”

We got in his truck without saying a word. There was something pensive and quiet about Jonas that night. Not in a bad way; I could just tell when he was thinking a lot.

“Let’s take a drive,” he suggested.

“Whatever you want.”

We reached the top of Mulholland when he stopped the car. I had stared at this amazing view thousands of times before, but it was never as beautiful as it was seeing it with Jonas. He got out, walked over to my side, opened the door, and offered me his hand—a gentleman.

Tuesday night, I’d never forget.

“Hi,” he spoke shyly to me, as if he were seeing me for the first time.

“Hi,” I replied, staring up into his face.

We walked around to the back of the car, and Jonas lifted the hatch, telling me to climb in and take a seat. All of Los Angeles was spread out before me. I was feeling relaxed, less uptight, less prepared for battle, so I sat.

“Are you cold?” he asked, opening a can of Heineken.

“No, actually, I’m okay,” I said, referring more to the range of emotions I was feeling than my body temperature. I was ready. I didn’t care about my mother’s recriminations. I didn’t care about tomorrow, how it might make me feel. I cared about only “right now,” the moment, and I was only sorry I hadn’t brushed my teeth.

He started to talk to me about his day, about seeing his dad, how he was nearing the end. It was hardly the appropriate time to seduce him.

“He’s just not the same man anymore. It’s hard to see him like this, the shell where he once lived. Sometimes I just want him to go; sometimes I think it would be a lot easier to remember him the way he was, than the way he is now. And then I feel like such a jerk for thinking like that.”

I wanted to say something meaningful, willing my brain to spout out the perfect response, but I was subsumed in my own sadness.

“I’m going to miss him…” he continued.

I was scared Jonas was going to collapse right there beside me. His head hung in his hands, the beer finished off in one bold gulp. I placed my hand on his shoulder, thinking that maybe I could reassure him, give him some of my strength.

“I’m sorry,” I said. For him, for Adam Levy, for me, for all of us.

“No,” he said, “
I’m
sorry. I shouldn’t be laying this on you. You’ve had enough of your own pain.”

Tuesday night. I’d always remember Tuesday. You think it’s just one of those mundane

days of the week, not Friday and not nearly as dreaded as Monday, but Tuesday.

“I’m your friend, and this is what friends do.” I didn’t want to tell him that he was wrong about my pain. He was the one who had time with his father. He was the one with stories. Without those memories, my pain was far less significant.

“He was always an amazing father. You should have seen him when we were kids.”

Then he laughed. “But you weren’t even born yet.”

“Thank you for always finding the appropriate times to remind me of my youth.”

If only I could have told him I wished I was twenty-two, like him, so when he touched me, it wouldn’t be a crime.

“If it’s any consolation,” he said, “you make me feel a lot older than twenty-two.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, watching him open another can of beer.