Chapter 23 Audrey
Audrey
Saturday evening, reunion weekend
I sit at the table, knowing the people around me.
I do know them. We are all good friends.
I just can’t quite place them. Their words seem to tumble past, too fast or too muffled for me to understand.
I remember being like this before, and I don’t think it will last, but still, fear curls up around my legs like a snake.
When will I come out of it? What if it gets worse and I tumble off the edge into a dead zone? What if I can never climb back up?
A little more time. A little more time to be the old me. The real me. Please.
When the people laugh, I laugh, too. A man comes up behind me and puts his hand on my shoulder. “Doin’ okay?”
“You bet,” I say. He is not my father, but in a way, he seems like it. Protective, kind, maybe a little tired. Putting on a good front, that’s it. The only person I’m sure of is my brother. Stephen. He’s got my back. He knows me better than anyone.
There’s a lot of food on the table. “Is it Thanksgiving or something?” I ask, and everyone laughs. Why it’s funny, I don’t know, but I laugh, too. There’s a piece of cloth to my left. Is it a scarf? Is it cold in here? No, everyone else is putting it on their laps. I do the same.
It’s clear I’m at a party in my own house, so I must be the host. This is a problem, because I don’t remember cooking or doing anything at all.
How long will these people be here? I like having them here, because they love me, but I’m also anxious.
One is very tall. One is extremely pretty.
One is very polished and holds her cutlery oddly, like they do in Europe.
There are two teenagers here as well, though I’m not sure who invited them, or if they just came here.
One teenager belongs to the man who put his hand on my shoulder.
One has very short hair. She likes me. The other one, with curly brown hair, does not.
I know this. It’s not a surprise, but it hurts down into my bones.
I love her desperately. I know this, too.
I don’t know why she doesn’t like me, but I ache with my love for her.
“Can you, like, stop staring at me, Audrey?” the girl says.
“You’re pretty, that’s all,” the short-haired girl says. I know they’re involved. I know she is good for the curly-haired girl.
“I love you,” I say.
“Jesus. Can we not?” Mathilda says. Mathilda! That’s her name! “Like, too many people, okay? So tamp it down a little, maybe?”
“Knock it off, squirt,” my brother says, and she looks at him, gives a reluctant smile and rolls her eyes.
The fog is lifting, thank God. She’s Mathilda, for God’s sake, and though I know it’s the disease, I can’t help feeling irritated with myself.
Stephen looks at me, and I understand the question in his eyes. When am I going to tell her?
The answer is never. I wrote her a letter for after I die. Soon I’ll do what I have to do. The girl doesn’t need to feel pity for me on top of the disdain, mistrust and resentment. She doesn’t need to hear about fogs and dead zones.
“Mrs. Joyce, are you excited for the dance? Got any hot boyfriends from the olden days you’re hoping to see?” the other one asks. She’s got a funny name, same as a mountain. Denali? No, Everest! That’s it.
“I do not, Everest,” I say, and Stephen gives me a nod, letting me know I’m doing well.
“She was such a goody two-shoes in high school,” Micah says, and I’m pleased that her name is back in my head. Micah, Beck, Jasmine, Clay, Mathilda and Everest.
“And you were not,” I tell Micah. “You weren’t even a goody one-shoe.” This gets a ripple of laughter and agreement. Even Mathilda smiles.
This dinner reminds me of other times, long ago, when these same people, minus Clay and the teenagers, were here, doing just this. Eating, laughing, passing food, teasing each other. My mom would’ve been here, presiding over us.
Mom. The word pulses through my blood, as powerful and essential as breath.
How is it possible that I’ve lived so long without her?
How could she have missed my entire adult life?
She should be here. I never felt so safe as when I was with my mom.
But I wouldn’t want her to watch me wither and die. It would have broken her.
I hope I’ll see her again. I hope she’ll be with me at the end.
“The youth and I will clean up,” Stephen announces. “You ladies go do your thing. I want to be dazzled by every one of you.”
“Your wish will be granted,” Jasmine says. “Let’s go, Core Four. I brought a ton of makeup and it’s all top-drawer.”
“How Gucci you are,” Micah says, whatever that means.
All four of us go upstairs, talking about what everyone will wear, how we want to do our hair, who we’re hoping to see.
The other three are murmuring about something, giggling, and I know they’ve got something planned for me.
Something sweet, I know. Once upon a time, we were sisters. It feels like we still are.
I know this will be the last time we do this. This is the closure I never thought I’d have. More than I could’ve asked for. I am so grateful. I love them so much. But the Core Four is nearly at the end. Again.
And this is the beginning of something else. Tomorrow, when my friends leave, I will start planning my departure, too. I will not mess that up. I will go when I am still me, for Stephen, for Mathilda and Clay. For myself.
As with so many other times, the foggy barrier that shrouded me earlier thins and lifts almost completely. For now. Jasmine drives the four of us plus Stephen to Stafford High for the dance. We are all glammed up. “God, we smell good,” I say, and Beck gives me a fond nudge.
“The appetizers, beer and wine are free; cash bar if you want something else,” Micah says. She looks as bright as a Christmas present in a low-cut blue dress, curvier than she used to be. She keeps checking her phone. James will be meeting her there.
We all look stunning, really. Jasmine did my hair so it curls gently, and I’m wearing a silky white sleeveless dress I didn’t remember I had.
Red heels, which I’m a little worried about.
Dementia messes with my balance on top of everything else.
But I look pretty, and I haven’t felt pretty in a long time.
Beck is wearing a halter-neck black jumpsuit that Jasmine instantly identified as Armani.
It shows off her gorgeous shoulders and neck and seems to reflect the person she’s become—straightforward, upscale and smart.
Jasmine has on a long, loose red dress that is so sophisticated and effortless she could be .
. . what’s her name . . . Cate something.
“I’m embarrassed to tell you how many things I tried on before picking this,” Jasmine says, reading my mind.
“I wanted everyone to think I look incredibly successful.”
“But you are,” I say.
“Not really, Auds,” she says. “In some ways, yes, but not the way I thought I’d be.”
“In the ways that matter,” I say.
She gives a smile, but sadness is woven through her face. “You’re still so kind, Audrey,” she whispers.
“Damn straight,” I say, and she smiles for real then.
I want us to all have fun tonight, to dance and laugh and glow the way we once did.
And maybe I’ll get to feel a little flicker of lust or desire or .
. . something. Micah said Derek Shields would be here, or maybe they’ve convinced Ché to slow dance with me.
In hindsight, which is not something I have a lot of these days, the wish to feel like I’m in love feels silly.
But still.
Beck and Stephen sit on either side of me, and I’m stuck in a cross fire of their pheromones. “I can’t believe I didn’t know about you two in high school,” I say.
“Right?” Jasmine says, glancing in the rearview. “You sneaky teenagers, you.”
“You gonna hook up later?” Micah asks, and we all laugh, and Beck smiles and shakes her head.
“I just ended a serious relationship,” Stephen says, and I’m pleased that I can summon the face of the woman he was seeing. Issa? Kesha? No, Isha. “But if I wasn’t so emotionally vulnerable, totally,” he adds with a grin.
“Sure, sure,” Beck says. “That’s what they all say.”
“You could take advantage of that emotional vulnerability,” Micah suggests, and we laugh again. I give my brother a nudge. He nudges back.
There’s a line of cars pulling into the high school, and the familiar ribbon of fear curls around me. “I might need you guys,” I say. “You’ll cover for me, right? If I’m fumbling?”
“Of course,” Beck says. “We all will.”
“Clay’s not here, right?” I ask.
“He said he might drop by later, in case you wanted to introduce him around,” Jasmine says.
“Sure,” I say. “Or so he can scope out candidates for his third wife.” We snort with laughter. It shouldn’t be funny, but it is.
The school gym is decorated with streamers in crimson and white, and a sadly worn taxidermied bobcat sits on the sign-in table. People cluster around Ché for selfies.
We check in and get our name tags and unanimously decide we don’t want to sully our outfits with them.
There’s wine and food and people approaching, hugging and talking.
The DJ is playing “Smells Like Teen Spirit.” Hopefully, his music choices will improve.
The other three are talking and glancing at me, and I worry that I’ve already done something wrong.
Then Micah is off, weaving through the crowd.
She finds James and kisses him, and he slides his hand to her ass in a casual, familiar way.
That’s what love looks like. Twenty-five years together and still so appreciative of the other.
It’s so different from Clay’s autopilot form of marriage—the rote compliments, the obligatory show of affection from time to time.
And lately, his martyred patience as he takes care of me.
He’ll be relieved when this is all over. I understand.