Chapter 8 New York, New York #2
AJ and Brian hit the road right after the February 18 episode of SNL wrapped so they could be at the hospital first thing Sunday morning. Brian was unusually quiet on the drive up. In fact, AJ realized as she caught him glancing at her for the dozenth time, he’d been tense all week.
AJ chalked it up to stress at work. Brian had been traveling as much as ever without any real rest since all their spare time was being siphoned into AJ’s family.
It wasn’t until the next day, when AJ caught sight of the Simmons receptionists’ heart-filled candy bowl and lacy pink calendar, that she remembered Tuesday had been Valentine’s Day.
It felt so far away now. AJ had canceled their plans last-minute for work. It suddenly occurred to her that Brian might have had more than dinner in mind. Automatically, she glanced at his pockets. When she looked up, Brian was watching her.
Before AJ could so much as open her mouth, Elle appeared, baby Claire strapped to her chest. With an apologetic smile to Brian, she grabbed AJ’s arm and whisked her off toward Patrick’s room.
“What is it?” said AJ.
“You’ll see,” said Elle conspiratorially.
Inside, Pat was propped up in bed, looking as energized as AJ had seen him since the accident.
“Age, look!” he said, and raised his right hand a few inches above his tray table.
“And he’s feeling some tingling in his right leg,” said Elle, bouncing Claire.
This, they explained, boded well for further recovery, at least on that side of his body. AJ grinned, feeling the vise on her heart ease.
“I asked Mom not to say anything, so I could give you the full demonstration,” said Patrick.
AJ’s relief was short-lived. When she returned to the waiting area, she found her family stooped and daunted. The glimmer of this news was already a few days old for them, and they were back to staring down the long, dark road of Patrick’s recovery.
In that moment, AJ would have done anything to bring some light to her loved ones, to take away their pain. She could feel Brian’s eyes across the room. When she looked at him, he stood.
They drove into town, bought coffee, and meandered toward the Housatonic River Walk. The forest was covered in snow, but the footpath was clear.
When Brian told AJ there was something he’d been wanting to ask her but he wasn’t sure if the timing was right, she said it was.
When he told her that the last two years had been his happiest, and that he always wanted to be there for her, she said he could.
And when he took out a small black box and asked her to marry him, she said she would.
AJ’s parents celebrated the news with a massive dinner at home.
AJ might never have fantasized about being a bride, but like all women, she knew what was expected on this occasion and tried her best to act the part.
She posed for photos with Brian and allowed her sisters and Elle to gawk at the ring, a square-cut solitaire in a platinum Elsa Peretti setting, according to Libby.
“That’s at least two carats,” she said knowledgeably. “He did good.”
When the meal had ended and the plates had been cleared, the Graves family settled in front of the television for a basketball game.
AJ watched from outside her body as Brian and her father shook their heads then tipped back their beers in perfect synchronization. When Brian caught her staring, he got up and gave her a one-armed hug. “I know we’re cutting back,” he said. “But beer doesn’t count, right?”
“Right,” AJ heard herself say. Then she volunteered to go for a supply run.
Ten minutes later, she found herself on the sidewalk outside Reel World Video.
Thanks to a robust senior community who still thought DVDs were cutting-edge, the store was hanging on. AJ greeted Storm, then went into the Directors room and stood still between the shelves, letting the shop’s musty, familiar smell envelop her. She took a breath, and then another.
She would be happy with Brian. She would. He was a catch. And he wanted to be with her. And they got along. And he’d been really amazing during this crisis. And her family liked him. This was what normal people did, the next step on the path to a good life.
At length, AJ walked back into the front room of the store. Storm was decorating for the Oscars, affixing DVD cases to an enormous gold display.
“Big week ahead for your boyfriend,” said Storm, adding The Contract.
“Right,” said AJ, feeling giddy for the first time that day.
Noah didn’t win. The consensus was largely that he had been snubbed. AJ agreed.
She had returned from Gladstone that Sunday too late to meet up with Brian. Instead, she sat in her apartment, eating Pringles and waiting for Noah to walk the red carpet.
His memory hung around Simmons, a phantom presence appearing to her in quiet moments, reminding her of New York, of what she had said, of who she had become. This week, he had also literally appeared in Us Weekly with his latest girlfriend, Allison Seabring.
Allison was an indie darling, a serious actor on Noah’s level. She was lively, and interesting, and interesting looking—lithe, with a dirty-blond chop and a cobalt stare. When they arrived at the Oscars, Noah took such care helping her from a shiny black limousine it made AJ’s skull hurt.
He looked incredible, dressed in a classic peak lapel tuxedo. He had gotten some sun, no doubt from his and Allison’s recent—and heavily photographed—Bermudan getaway. Despite AJ’s best intentions, she put aside the Pringles and grabbed the vodka from the freezer.
By the time they were playing the Best Actor clips, AJ was pleasantly buzzed. From The Contract, they showed the speech in which Nathan Mercer sort-of-confessed to killing his best friend, a fellow contract killer sent to bump off the woman he’d loved since childhood.
“They called him a wise guy, but he was a wise man,” the speech began. By the end, AJ was in tears. The camera found Noah in the audience, Allison’s hand reaching inside the frame to grasp his forearm. His face was impassive as he nodded in acknowledgment.
You fucking deserve to be sick.
AJ had been through so much since December, but the remorse she felt over these words was a glowing red brand across her chest. Of all the ways it could have ended between them, she had never envisioned it ending in cruelty.
When the presenter crowned another actor, the camera went to the victor, then immediately back to Noah. His smile was genuine as he stood, heartily applauding the winner.
I’m not the only one who’s sick.
AJ looked at the vodka in her hand, immolated by shame. I don’t need this, she told herself. Then she walked to the kitchen and poured it down the sink. She grabbed the bottle and did the same.
She watched until the end of the ceremony, hoping for another glimpse of him that did not come.
AJ’s next trip home coincided with the arrival of spring and Elle’s parents, Raven and Gawain Mabon-Fay, who descended on Gladstone in an Airstream full of suncatchers and essential oils.
As they swept into the waiting area that Saturday, Raven in lilac robes, Gawain in forest green, AJ felt oddly subdued. Their presence was yet another indicator of Patrick’s long recovery.
“Katie, there you are,” boomed Raven, unveiling a bouquet of white crystal rods from inside her cloak. “We can all relax—I found the selenite for Patrick’s room.”
“Are you sure that’s necessary?” said AJ’s mom, looking up from Women’s Health magazine.
“Of course,” said Raven. “Goddess only knows who else died in there. And AJ! I hear the hand-fasting rites will soon be upon you, young lady.” She winked audaciously, and AJ grinned.
It was hard to say who loved whom more. AJ loved Raven for inspiring her breakout run of sketches, “1-800-Amethyst.” Raven loved AJ for making her “immortal through art.”
“Where is the young galante?” asked Raven, her pale blue eyes boring into AJ’s.
“He’s covering spring training,” said AJ. Raven blinked. “For baseball,” AJ clarified.
“Ah well, I’m sure we’ll meet him soon,” said Raven. She turned to AJ’s mother with a severe look. “Did you get the email I sent you about the Reiki attunements over in Great Barrington?”
Katie Graves blanched. “I, uh—”
“It’s very important that everyone handling the baby has first degree,” she said emphatically. “It’s crucial.”
AJ’s mother dropped the magazine on her lap. “I did raise five kids, Raven.”
“Yes, and I’m sorry to say that not one of them—sorry, AJ—is in real alignment. Speaking of, there isn’t a moment to waste—the moon is almost at its zenith!”
“Optimal for healing,” explained Gawain as Raven billowed down the hall toward Patrick’s room. AJ’s mom waited for about five seconds, then threw Women’s Health onto an empty chair and strode after Raven, muttering, “I’ll show you alignment.”
Gawain gave AJ a cheery smile, then took a seat, producing a crochet needle and a hat he was making for baby Claire. Under his breath, he hummed “Moonshadow,” by Cat Stevens.
That spring, AJ pitched sketches about the whimsical sadists who made candy-colored scrubs, a woman who descended into madness trying to get healthcare to cover her vending machine tab, and grief as a competitive sport. Her own grief was sharpening her work, and everyone noticed.
“Age, you’re really heating up,” said Grady, after the table read for her “Grief Bowl” sketch.
Once, this praise would have made AJ’s year, but it now felt empty.
Instead, AJ looked at forty-three-year-old Grady, who did nothing but chug Red Bull and talk out of his ass, and wondered why the fuck he got to have two working legs while Pat had to shit into a bag.
For Easter, AJ sent Brian ahead to his folks in Connecticut, while she stopped over in Gladstone. She arrived at Simmons on Saturday morning to discover a strange, upsetting scene: her mother outside Patrick’s room, crying into the arms of Raven Mabon-Fay.