Chapter 3
Charges against Petit were dropped in return for him doing a performance for children in Central Park. He received a lifetime pass to the Twin Towers’ observation deck and signed his name on a steel girder near the spot where his tightrope walk began.
That beam, of course, no longer exists.
I used to imagine what it might have looked like to the pedestrians below, seeing this death--defying acrobat more than a thousand feet above them.
These days, I think about what Petit saw, looking down.
If he heard their applause. If he thought about the consequences of taking one wrong step, or if his secret was just to put one foot in front of the other until he reached solid ground.
Relapse, my therapist June tells me, is part of recovery.
Sometimes it takes the form of Satan coming back into my thoughts.
Other times, I go on manic shopping sprees for things I don’t need and can’t afford: ice--climbing equipment, a six--month supply of dumplings, a five--foot--tall china doll.
Once, I experience a depression so deep I go an entire week without leaving my bed.
When it happens—-and it inevitably does—-it’s usually not because I’m doing badly.
I’m doing well, so well that I decide the dry mouth and nausea and the shaking hands and the exhaustion aren’t worth the benefits of the lithium.
I’ll just stop the meds for a few days, and see how it goes, I tell myself, and then I find out.
June and I have a mantra. Each time it happens, after my meds have been tweaked and I’m back on a regimen, I am allowed to cry about it for exactly one therapy session.
Then I get mad at myself for making a bad decision and we discuss how to recognize the signs of doing it again.
Which I might or might not heed. If the Alcoholics Anonymous motto is “One day at a time,” then the bipolar motto has to be “One moment at a time.”
I moved out of Ximena’s house a few months after my first setback, and found my own apartment.
I could barely afford anything, so I made a deal with the landlord to lower the rent in return for having me fix up the space.
I repaired the sagging fireplace mantel and tore up the carpet and installed wood flooring.
I painted a mural of hothouse flowers that exploded from the kitchen to the living room.
I made a home so beautiful that it’s where I’ve lived now for years.
That was when I learned how to use a level. My life is very much like that little yellow bubble. Most of the time, I stay within the guidelines. But sometimes, the bubble slides out of the target zone. When that happens, it’s a struggle to achieve balance.
Not long ago, I was at Milagros’s softball game when I saw a stranger with tawny hair and cobalt eyes, so reminiscent of Adam that I tripped over everyone else on the bleachers, trying desperately to get away.
Ximena found me in the parking lot, crouched next to a pickup truck, shaking uncontrollably.
The next day I could not muster the energy to get out of bed.
It took me four hours to force myself to find my cellphone, to call June.
For nearly three weeks, someone from the crisis team came to see me daily.
When the buzzer rang, I would drag myself out of bed.
The person would ask me how I was feeling, and mostly I didn’t answer.
We would sit in silence at the kitchen table I had refinished, and they would give me a task: Do you think you can manage a shower?
Could you make a cup of tea? After the blackness lifted, I found lists I’d written in my spidery script: Get out of bed. Call a friend. Walk around the block.
Years ago, after the first time I stumbled and righted myself, I had treated myself to a reward: I hired Hurlihy again.
I met him at the office with the ballet students thumping above, and he passed me a manila envelope of pictures: Molly with her daycare providers, in a stroller built for six babies.
Molly at Central Park, splashing in a puddle.
Every six months, they came: Molly running after a duck, laughing. Molly eating an ice cream cone.
I put every one of these grainy photos in the drawer beside my bed, so that if a day came again when I could not get out of it, they’d be within reach.
With Mercedes graduating from college soon and Milagros getting ready to take her SATs, Ximena is either always working to save for tuition or helping with flash cards.
Now that I live in my own place and work at a medical records firm—-a job that grew out of my temp agency work—-we have to make dates to see each other.
We are meeting tonight at a Cuban restaurant run by a friend of Ximena’s.
Over pastelitos and ropa vieja, Ximena and I catch up on each other’s lives. I tell her that I traded in my car for a new lease. She says that Milagros got a 1590 on her SATs. “I don’t know what that means,” I admit. I hadn’t had to take the SATs to get into RISD.
“It means she can go anywhere she wants,” Ximena says. “And she’ll probably get a scholarship somewhere.”
“And Mercedes?”
“Nearly got herself arrested,” Ximena scoffs. “She was protesting the war.” The Iraq war has been going on for five years.
“I guess those are the kinds of things you’re supposed to do in college,” I say.
“I wouldn’t know.” Ximena sniffs. “I was too busy giving birth to Mercedes to get a degree in Women’s and Gender Studies.”
I smile.
“Can you imagine,” she says, with true wonder. “Being stupid enough to risk being detained by the police?”
I can’t. Ximena and I have different reasons for wanting to keep a low profile, but they are both valid. “Chalk it up to youth,” I say.
“Speaking of that,” Ximena replies, “you’re not getting any younger.”
A laugh bursts out of me. “Thanks?”
“When the most exciting thing you have to tell me is that you leased a blue car instead of a black one, how am I supposed to live vicariously through you?” She leans forward. “You work in a medical records company. Don’t you ever get to meet any hot doctors?”
“You need to stop watching Grey’s Anatomy,” I tell her.
“I don’t get it, Georgia,” she says, folding her arms. “Do you prefer women? You know that doesn’t matter to me.”
I know, because Milagros had come out last year, and instead of throwing her a quinceanera, Ximena had pivoted and thrown her a Pride party.
I shake my head. “I just prefer my predictable little life.”
As years passed and I settled into my role as Georgia Gilligan, Ximena and I had traded our secrets.
The difference was that mine were fabricated, while hers were real.
She told me about the gangs in El Salvador, how if you looked down at a body you passed in the street, you would be targeted next because the killers assumed you knew the victim and would talk.
She described arriving in America knowing no English and not a single person.
She told me at times she had stolen the ketchup packets from McDonald’s and spread them on Wonder bread to feed the girls.
In return I told her about Boston, drawing on memories from our visits there as RISD students.
I told her the reason I left was that I didn’t want my ex to find me, which was not really a lie.
Ximena assumed that my partner had been abusive, and I didn’t correct her.
When she asked about my daughter, I could barely speak.
“She had strawberry--blond hair,” I told Ximena, “and cheeks so round. I wish I could hold her, just one more time.” Facts. All facts.
I almost began to believe my new origin story. If you repeat it often enough, a lie becomes your truth. And I keep the boundaries of my new life small and secure.
“Well, you go be a nun,” Ximena scoffs. “To each her own.”
As soon as she says this, her phone dings. She picks it up, and a shy smile spreads over her face. “Um, hello,” I say, calling her out. “Who’s texting you?”
“It’s not a text, it’s a message on Facebook.”
When I look at her blankly, she rolls her eyes.
“It’s a new internet app, Georgia. How do you not know this?
You post little messages so your friends know what you’re up to.
But you can also search for people you’ve lost touch with.
You know, play Private Eye.” Her cheeks burn scarlet.
“I found a guy I used to date back in El Salvador, before I got married. He lives in Florida and works at a marina.”
“Does he now?” I tease.
“We’ve been messaging. That’s all.” She glances at me. “You should create a profile. It’s free.”
“I can barely figure out email,” I reply, but it’s given me an idea.
Ximena rolls her eyes. “Fine then,” she says. “Go back to living under your rock.”
After I’ve created a profile on Facebook, I type in Adam’s name. He isn’t listed, so I type in Evie’s.
When I see her profile picture, I draw in a sharp breath.
She looks older—-I suppose we all do. She is wearing a cream silk dress and holds a bouquet of violets.
Beside her, Adam smiles in a navy suit. One of his arms is around Evie’s waist. The other rests on the shoulder of a little girl with a red ribbon woven through her French braid.
Molly’s dress looks like a cupcake, all tulle and sparkles.
She carries a little basket filled with rose petals.
I click on the About link.
Relationship: Married since 28 July 2007.
I close my eyes and hear Evie, years ago: I’m in love. I met him at Louis.
I had laughed. Laughed.
I guess we should start planning the wedding.
Once, for a Christmas card, Milagros had photoshopped the faces of herself, Mercedes, and her mother onto an image of Charlie’s Angels.
It looked so real that at first, I thought they’d bought costumes and had a photo shoot.
That’s how it feels to look at this photo.
Like I’ve been erased. Evie superimposed.
Even though this is what I wanted—-wished for—-for Molly, it still hurts.