Thirty-Five #2
My mother, I think, sometimes showed up in unexpected ways. When I was in ninth grade, I had done terribly on a math test.
I was terrified of telling my father, and disappointed in myself for performing so badly on an exam that should have been
easy.
I went to school the day after I got the results, and was sitting in Spanish class when the teacher picked up the phone. “Missy?”
she said. “Your mother is here for your doctor’s appointment.”
I didn’t remember having a doctor’s appointment, but I gathered my textbooks and notebooks, my pencil case, and placed them
neatly in my new red backpack, next to the lunch I had made for myself that morning.
I made my way slowly down the school corridors to the front of the building where my mother would be waiting, trying to remember what I could be going to the doctor for. I hadn’t been sick, and couldn’t think of anything.
She stood just inside the school doors, in jeans, clogs, an oversized floral shirt, and, to my surprise, what looked like
lipstick and mascara. She looked pretty. She looked normal, like every other mother, not like a mother who spent most of her
days in bed.
She placed a hand on my back to guide me out of the heavy swinging school doors, both of us squinting in the bright sunshine.
“What doctor appointment do I have?” I asked as we headed to the car.
“Ssssh.” She turned around, checking no one was behind us to overhear. “No doctor appointment. I thought you needed cheering
up after the test results. We’re playing hooky. I’m taking you for lunch and a manicure. How does that sound?”
I couldn’t stop smiling. This was the ultimate treat, particularly because my mother hated manicures, didn’t see the point
of frivolities like painting your nails. On the rare occasions she had an event, she would buy a bottle of nail polish from
CVS and paint them herself in the bathroom. She knew how much I loved manicures; how Lucy’s mother would sometimes take us.
We would choose glittery polish in outrageous colors, delighting in the indulgence, in feeling adult.
We went to an organic market for lunch, where we both had salads, and ginger and lemon kombucha, which made my nose fizz and
wrinkle, and then we went to a nail salon and both had French manicures. Afterward, she took me to the bookstore and let me
browse for ages, eventually buying me three paperbacks, and then she bought me a petit four from the bakery. It was one of
the best days I had ever had with her.
Jerome kisses my mother on the cheek, tells her how sorry he is for her loss, then walks to the bed and sits down next to me.
I know he is concerned about me, I know it is wrong to have ignored all his calls, but the only thing I feel, as he sits on the bed and looks at me with concern, is irritation.
“I know you’re going through a really difficult time, but I think we should talk about things.”
I let out a bitter laugh. “You are kidding, right? I’ve just lost my father and lost his company, and you want to talk about
us?”
He looks shocked. “No, I want to talk about everything. Yes, I want to talk about us, but only in as much as you’ve been completely
ignoring me. I’m trying to be here for you, but you’ve ghosted me. I’ve had days of feeling sick with worry, and you haven’t
even responded to a text. I called Lucy in desperation, and she said you weren’t ready to see me yet and that I should give
you space. What the fuck does that even mean? And why is Lucy the one to tell me that? And how come that Noah is still here?”
“That Noah? What is that supposed to mean?” I shake my head. “Please don’t tell me you’re jealous. What do you think? My life is
upside-down and I’m busy fooling around with Noah?” Jerome looks uncomfortable. “Oh for God’s sakes,” I continue. “Don’t be
so ridiculous.”
“I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be ridiculous. I just . . . given that you appear to be ignoring me, it’s not unreasonable to
wonder if there is someone else.”
“Given that my father has just died and I have just been unceremoniously fired, it’s not unreasonable to wonder if I might
be devastated, and grieving, and trying everything I can just to get through the day.”
His voice softens. “Missy, I want to help. I’m here to help. Scarlett’s been trying to get hold of you and frankly, it might
do you good to help out with things. Keep you busy, take your mind off everything.”
“Take my mind off having no job thanks to Clara?” I practically spit out her name, and am gratified that Jerome has the grace to look uncomfortable.
“I know. I’m as angry as you are, and I’m going to find out what happened. I don’t approve or agree, but I can do more as
an insider. Please don’t take your anger out on me. I’m on your side, and I can do way more.”
“So have you found anything out?”
“Not yet. She refuses to discuss it with me, citing a conflict of interests, which is bullshit. I’ll get to the bottom of
it. It’s appalling. You should never have been treated like that.”
I nod, somewhat gratified that he seems to be on my side.
“Why don’t you get out of bed?” he says. “Take a shower, get dressed. You’ll feel much better if you’re clean.”
“I’m not ready.” I close my eyes briefly, wondering if it’s too soon to take another Ambien, wondering what Jerome would say
if I told him.
“Come on.” He tries to pull me up, smiling as if this isn’t serious, as if he can flick a switch and get the old Missy back.
I wrench my arm away. “I can’t. I’m sorry Jerome, but I can’t do this.”
“What?”
“Anything.” I sigh. “This. Talking. Being with someone else. I can’t talk anymore. I need to be by myself.”
“Are you sure?” He looks wounded, but I need him to leave. He kisses me on the forehead and walks out, closing the door behind
him. I know I should care more about being nicer to him, but I can’t. I stand by the window and listen for his car leaving,
and it’s only when I hear the engine, when I see his car pull out of the driveway and go up the street, turn the corner, that
I feel I can breathe. I get back into bed and stare dully at the ceiling, wondering if alcohol will make this easier.
There is another knock on my door. Fuck. What now? Before I have a chance to ask who it is, my door is opening and there is Noah with a mug in his hand. There’s nothing tentative about him, I realize, as I watch him from my bed, barefoot in jeans, his hair wet from a shower.
“I’ve brought you a hot chocolate.” He marches into the bedroom. He sounds entirely normal, not lowering his voice so it drips
with gentle concern like everyone else has been doing. “We didn’t have real whipped cream so I used the canned stuff. Shitty,
but delicious.”
“Thank you.” I am surprised that there is a lump in my throat, and before I know it, this small kindness from Noah has my
body heaving in unexpected sobs. My eyes are blurred with tears, but I see him place the mug down on my nightstand, then climb
onto the bed next to me. He settles into the pillows as I wonder what the hell he is doing, and then puts his arms around
me, pulling me in until my head is on his chest, his arms holding me tight. I am sobbing, but his breathing is slow and calm,
and as my head moves in time with his breathing, I start to relax. The world stops. Everything stops.
Soon, I drift into sleep.
I wake up in what must be the middle of the night. I am still tightly wrapped in Noah’s arms, and I move ever so slightly
to see the digital clock on the dresser. It is 3:07 a.m. The room is dark but the blinds are up, the streetlights casting
shadows over my bed.
I stir ever so slightly, and I look up at Noah’s face, roaming over his neck, his chin, and up to his eyes, which are open
and looking at me.
I push myself off his chest and scoot backward so I am facing him. I can barely see him, only the planes of his face in the
shadows, and I do not plan to do this, I do not mean to do this, but suddenly I am kissing him, and in a world that makes
no sense whatsoever, this feels like the only thing that does.
I kiss him hungrily, a starving women drowning in a desert of grief, finding the one delicacy to satisfy her. I push him back and unbutton his jeans, pulling my own T-shirt off, until Noah gently pushes me away.
“Are you sure?” he whispers, looking deep into my eyes. “It’s not that I don’t want, I mean, I really, really, really want,
but I don’t want to do this unless you are absolutely sure. You’re grieving, and in a fog, and . . .”
I kiss him again. “I really, really, really want,” I say, and when he kisses me back, there is no going back.
And finally, finally, I wake up.
When I open my eyes, it is morning, and I am on my own. I lie still wondering whether last night really happened or whether
it was a dream. I replay everything in my mind, but there are huge gaps, as if it had been a dream. Was this Ambien sex, I
wonder, knowing that Ambien can be a disinhibitor, that people do strange things, eat in the middle of the night, drive around
golf courses. I once heard about a friend of a friend’s mother who died choking on a roast beef sandwich she had made herself
in the middle of the night. She was fast asleep, unconsciously gorging. I had always been terrified of Ambien, but these past
few days I have gotten over the fear.
But last night. Noah. Did it happen? Was it a dream? If it happened, why do I remember snapshots, like short video clips that