chapter thirteen
“IT’S THE MOST WONDERFUL time of the year!” Larry sang out.
“What, Christmastime?” I asked.
“No! Course-evaluation time!”
Larry was the only person I knew who actually looked forward to reading his student evals. He was one of the most popular professors on campus, with his own Facebook fan club and a string of departmental and college teaching awards. Even his Rate My Professor reviews were over-the-top effusive. “Professor Ettinger is seriously the best prof I’ve had at Fairfax,” a typical review read. “He’s tough, but you’ll learn a lot. I heart him.” One of Larry’s favorite things to do was to go through his reviews and count how many chili peppers he got.
“Don’t you feel like you’re a restaurant on Yelp?” I once asked him.
“Oh, yes,” he said. “It’s wonderful! Apparently my students find me absolutely flaming.”
“I loathe course evaluations,” I said, pulling my package of evals from my department mailbox. “I never remember the good ones, only the bad. Like the time someone wrote, ‘If I had an hour to live, I’d spend it in this class because it felt like ETERNITY.’ ”
“Oh, everyone gets an occasional doozy. You just have to laugh at them. I’ve memorized my favorites.”
“Like what?”
“Like the time someone called me a ‘flaming douche nugget with a messed-up sense of humer’—h-u-m-e-r.”
“That’s awesome,” I laughed. “You win. I’ve definitely never been called that before.”
I walked over to the Xerox machine to run off copies of my upcoming final exam, placing my original on the glass and hitting start. Nothing happened. I pushed the button again. Still nothing.
“Goddammit,” I said.
“Another paper jam?” Larry asked.
“Some idiot played ding-dong-ditch with the copier.”
“Ooooh, let me take a wild guess who it was . . .”
I unlocked some levers, opened a flap, and removed several sheets of paper that had accordioned on the rollers. Part of the sheet was still legible:
Dr. Stephen Culpepper
ENGL 431: Medieval Morality Plays
Glossary of Literar—
“It was Steve,” I said.
“Of course it was,” Larry laughed. “Did you even have to look?”
“How is someone capable of reading Anglo-Saxon and not understand how to clear a paper jam? Or at least leave a Post-it note apologizing?”
“Oh, you know Steve—he thinks his copies just magically disappear in the bowels of the machine. Like medieval sorcery!”
Steve was in his office setting up a miniature nativity scene when I swung by to deliver the news about my book contract.
“My, my, my! Congratulations, Anne,” Steve said, adjusting the manger. “Just barely in the nick of time! Truthfully, I was starting to get a bit nervous for you. So when will the book be out?”
“In about a year, if everything goes smoothly.”
“I hope you’ll get a chance to celebrate a little over the holidays. Are you going anywhere?”
“No, I’ll be around,” I said. “Working on book revisions.” Rick had floated the possibility of my joining him at a writer’s colony in Costa Rica, but I’d had to decline. For one thing, the plane ticket would have cost close to a thousand bucks. For another, Lauren was going to be visiting her in-laws for the holidays, which meant I was in charge of celebrating with my father.
“And when are these revisions due?” Steve asked.
“Beginning of February.”
“Well, you better get cracking,” Steve said, putting on a CD of medieval Christmas carols and starting to hum along. “As soon as we get back from break, I’ll get in touch with HR about extending your employment contract. In the meantime, I’ll need a copy of your book contract and, come February, proof that the entire revised manuscript has been submitted.”
Seeing me start (what else did he want? my firstborn child?) Steve gave a little shrug. “Writers break their contracts all the time. You wouldn’t believe the stories—I know a fellow who managed to be promoted to full professor on the strength of a book that never materialized.” He shook his head. “We want to make sure everything’s airtight before we proceed.”
“Oh,” I said. “Thanks.” As I turned to leave, I added, “I found some of your handouts stuck in the copy machine. I left them in your box.”
“Ah, thank you,” Steve said, chuckling. “Some little elves must have left them there.”
*
THE CAMPUS EMPTIED OUT completely over the winter break. The dorms closed, the library shut down, and even businesses on Main Street shuttered their doors for the two-week holiday. Rick had left for Costa Rica, and Larry was on his way to Paris, where he’d booked a last-minute getaway to distract himself from his Jack travails.
I went to the Christmas party at the assisted-living facility, bringing my dad some new socks and two boxes of See’s chocolates—one for him and one for his Secret Santa. The place was decorated with tinsel and a large artificial Christmas tree hung with plastic gold ornaments and candy canes. All the staff members were wearing Santa hats, and some of the residents were wearing Christmas sweaters and reindeer antlers. My father was sitting in a chair, dressed in a robe with his leg propped up on a stool and swaddled by a flesh-colored bandage. An aide dressed in holiday scrubs stood beside him, checking his dressing.
“What happened?” I asked, rushing to his side.
“Oh, nothing,” my father said, pooh-poohing my concern. “Some idiot pushed me.”
“Now Mr. Corey, you know that’s not true,” the aide said, giving him a bemused look. “You tripped and hurt your shin.”
“OK, fine. But my story sounds better.” My dad winked at her, and she made a show of rolling her eyes.
“Has your father always been such a troublemaker?” the aide asked me, grinning. “The real story is that he was walking to the rec room and lost his balance. Knocked his leg against one of the side tables. The doctor’s already checked it out. It’s not broken—just bruised.”
“Is he OK? Does he need a walker or something?” I asked.
“We’re keeping an eye on him—he may need a cane for added stability.”
“I don’t need a cane!” my father bellowed. “The only thing that’s bruised is my ego!”
I shushed my father and handed him a paper cup filled with punch, and he settled back in his chair. Over the next hour, he held court as a steady stream of old ladies approached us to see how he was doing and offer their sympathies. “Are you Jerry’s daughter?” they asked me. “Are you the single one or the one with kids? Jerry’s such a sweetheart. Always cracking jokes, that one.”
“Wow, Dad, you’re really popular,” I whispered.
“There are only four men in this entire facility, and one just had a heart attack,” my dad said, deadpan. “The odds are with me.”
I couldn’t believe it. As far as I knew, my father had never dated anyone after my mother died. I was four when she passed away from ovarian cancer and I had only the dimmest memories of her—a certain rose-scented lotion, a soft set of hands. They were the only constants against a backdrop that seemed perpetually to be changing. Back then, we’d moved frequently, staying at a place just long enough for my father to fix it up and rent it out before we moved to the next place. I never learned to memorize my home address because six months later, it would inevitably change.
After my mother died, my father made one concession to us. He didn’t make us move anymore. He bought a modest tract home in a good neighborhood and let us, for once, put pictures on the wall. He was always working, and Lauren and I soon learned to take care of ourselves, keeping the place tidy, doing the grocery shopping, cooking our own meals. Our mother receded into the background, and Lauren assumed her spot in the household.
Now, freed from responsibility, my father seemed lighter and happier than I’d ever seen him. He even cracked jokes and smiled every once in a while. He introduced me to a silver-haired woman named Georgia, then a redhead named Helene. They were each vying for my father’s attention when Helene suddenly squealed, “Is that a baby?”
A young woman had just entered the room, carrying an infant in a carrier on her chest. Around me, there was a ripple of excitement. “Did someone say ‘BABY’? I want to see the BABY!”
The young mother looked startled as she was surrounded by a bunch of frantic old ladies. I’d never seen anything like it. Even the ladies snoozing in their wheelchairs suddenly perked up and started rolling their way over.
“Is that your BABY?” one of them asked, her frail arms outstretched. “Can I hold your BABY?” The baby started to cry and the mother tried to shush him.
I watched in morbid fascination from across the room. Turning to my father, I asked, “Are they always like that?”
My dad shrugged. “Who knows?” he said. “Even I can’t compete with a baby.”
I chuckled at my dad’s joke. For a second, I considered telling him about my book contract but then thought better of it. A contract would mean nothing to him. He’d want to see an actual book, something he could hold and touch. As far as he was concerned, nothing I’d ever done had worked out. I thought back to how he’d dismissed Adam and scoffed at my career aspirations, and I was sure he would see this book contract as another foolish scheme of mine that was bound to fail.
Best to wait until the book was out to share the news, I decided. Anything could happen between now and the book’s publication, and I didn’t want to rile him up unnecessarily. With his leg hoisted onto the stool, he looked frailer than normal, swallowed up by his huge armchair.
I stood up. “Want more punch, Dad?” I asked.
*
I WALKED HOME THAT evening after promising my father to visit again on Christmas Day. The sky had turned dusky, and I could smell the smoky, sweet smell of a wood-burning fireplace. As I turned down my cul-de-sac and walked up to my apartment, I saw an explosion of leaves and then a flurry of barking coming from the front yard of a nearby house. A couple of squirrels darted up a tree, chased by a black-and-white dog with a speckled snout and light-colored eyes. The squirrels chattered excitedly above, sending down a shower of leaves, while the dog circled below, paws scrambling against the trunk.
Is that Charlie? I wondered, making my way over. The dog ran over to me, snuffling around my ankles and leaping up for kisses. I leaned over and managed to get ahold of his collar. On the small blue tag, I read:
CHARLIE
ADAM MARTINEZ
76 WELLESLEY ROAD
FAIRFAX, CA
I looked around, but the street was deserted. Charlie must have slipped out of his house and gotten lost.
“Come on, Charlie,” I said. “Let me take you home.”
Charlie followed me without much coaxing, pausing now and again to sniff at someone’s lawn or perk up his ears when a bird flew by. As we approached the president’s mansion, he broke into a run, leaping up the steps and to the front door, where he started barking to be let in.
I ran up the stairs after him, noticing how the porch had been decorated for the season, with large pots filled with red and white poinsettias and a lush holly wreath on the door. A white porch swing hung to my right, covered in dark green cushions, along with some matching rattan furniture.
Before I could ring the doorbell, Adam had opened the door.
“There you are, you rascal!” he said as Charlie jumped up to greet him. “You nearly gave me a heart attack!”
“Hi,” I said. “I saw him running around my neighborhood just now and figured he’d gotten lost.”
“Thanks so much for bringing him home,” Adam said, shaking his head with relief. “I’m so glad he didn’t get hit by a car. We were just about to head to LA.”
“Luckily he ran away from the main thoroughfare instead of toward it,” I said. “When I found him, he was in the middle of terrorizing some squirrels.”
“Of course,” Adam laughed. “He’s absolutely convinced that one day he’s going to catch one.”
“Did you find Charlie?” someone asked, coming up behind Adam. Bex.
“Oh, hi!” I said, startled. “I didn’t realize you were still in town.”
“I’m just here for the day looking at some real estate,” Bex said, smiling. “Fairfax is just so charming—I’m thinking of maybe buying a place. Do you live around here?”
“Yes—just around the corner, in one of those old Victorians.”
“Oh, I love those! Which one?”
“The yellow one with peeling paint and green shutters. I live at the top.”
“How darling! My dream is to buy one of those houses and fix it up. Could you imagine? Let me know if your landlord is ever interested in selling.”
“Sure. Well, happy holidays to both of you,” I said, heading back down the steps. “Have a safe drive.”
“Are you going anywhere for the holidays?” Adam called out.
“No—just staying in town with my dad.”
“Well, happy holidays,” Adam said, waving. “And thanks again.”
*
WITHOUT CLASSES TO TEACH, I found myself reverting to a nocturnal schedule, waking up at noon, visiting my father for a couple hours, then heading home to write late into the evening and night. I subsisted on a typical grad school diet of ramen and countless cups of coffee, sometimes not bothering to get out of my pajamas or even take a shower. Rick sent me photos of dazzling Costa Rican sunsets and a shot of him resting on a surfboard. Larry sent me photos of macarons at Ladurée.
The days blurred together. I felt like I was in a submarine, isolated from the rest of the world. I knew the process of revision was slow and painful, but this was slower and more painful than anything I’d ever worked on before. Every time I took a break to eat or make another cup of coffee, I felt myself flooded with self-doubt. This was it, I thought. I was going to fail. The contract was a fluke. I was an imposter. The only reason I’d even gotten the contract was because of Rick. Who did I think I was anyway?
I’d choke back the doubts and force myself underwater again, back into the bubble of writing and revising. The sun set, my coffee got cold, and Jellyby kept trying to sit on my keyboard. I wrote into the night, and when I was finally too tired to keep my eyes open, I dropped onto the couch and slept, but even then I dreamed about what I had to fix still and how much more I had to do. I woke up troubled and anxious, made myself another pot of coffee, toasted some bread that I immediately forgot about, and sat down again at my computer.
On New Year’s Eve, I sat down at my desk around three p.m. and had been working, uninterrupted, for a couple hours or so when I heard a volley of barking outside. I walked over to my window and peeked out, blinking into the setting sun. It was Charlie, pulling Adam up the steps of my porch.
“Adam!” I said, opening the front door, frantically trying to smooth my hair and look somewhat presentable. “What are you doing here?”
“Sorry to barge in on you like this,” he apologized. “I was taking Charlie on a walk and saw the light on. I wasn’t sure if it was your place, but Charlie seemed convinced. Yellow Victorian with green shutters, right?”
“That’s right.” Charlie wiggled past me and into my apartment.
“Charlie!” Adam yelled. “Get back here! I’m so sorry—he’s got terrible manners.”
“It’s fine—come in. Um, sorry about the mess. I’ve been working.” I’d been deep into my chapter on Brontë and now felt disoriented seeing Adam walk into my living room. He looked out of place in my small apartment, too tall and too pulled together. I wondered if my place smelled. I wondered if my breath smelled. I wondered if I could surreptitiously change out of my pajamas and put on a bra. Behind me, I could hear Jellyby hissing. Charlie had cornered her under the bed and was barking at her excitedly.
“You have a cat?” Adam asked.
“Yes, named Jellyby.”
“That’s Dickens, right?”
“Yes! You know me too well.”
As soon as the words came out of my mouth, I wished I hadn’t said them, but Adam was grinning at me affectionately. I felt myself getting flustered, listening to the cacophony of Charlie’s barking and Jellyby’s retaliatory yowls.
I finally managed to lure Charlie from my bedroom with a scoop of Jellyby’s kibble and quickly shut the bedroom door behind me, hoping Adam hadn’t seen my unmade bed and the pile of unfolded laundry I’d dumped onto a chair. Years of being a grad student meant most of my furniture was still secondhand or from IKEA. Nothing—from my towels to my bedsheets to my dishes—matched. While I liked to think my place looked boho chic in an Anthropologie sort of way, I now suspected it looked more like a grown-up dorm room, haphazard and cluttered.
“Please sit!” I told Adam, trying to tidy up the living room a little. During the break, my apartment had fallen into a state of squalor—my sink was full of dirty dishes, the coffee table covered in empty mugs, the couch blanketed in Jellyby’s fur. I found a lint brush and tried to clear a spot for Adam to sit on.
“Sorry,” I muttered. “I swear, I’m not usually such a slob.” I felt strangely vulnerable having Adam in my private space. We’d practically lived together in college, but now he was a stranger and I wondered what he was thinking. That he couldn’t imagine having to live in such filth? That I could still barely take care of myself?
“What are you working on?” Adam asked, looking curiously at the pile of books and papers on my desk.
“I’m finishing up my book,” I said. “I just landed a book contract and need to finish up some revisions.”
“Wow!” Adam exclaimed, practically bounding from his seat in excitement. “Why didn’t you tell me? That’s a huge accomplishment! Congratulations!”
“Thanks,” I said, blushing. “Though I’ve still got a lot of work to do.”
“This is huge! We need to celebrate.” Adam paused. “I know—what are you doing tonight? Do you already have plans?”
“I was just planning to write,” I stammered. “I’m kind of in the zone. Besides, everyone’s out of town.”
“It’s New Year’s Eve. You deserve a break. I have an idea—why don’t you come over and we’ll toast your book? I have some champagne left over from a reception. And my mom sent me home with about ten pounds of tamales.”
“Oh, you really don’t have to do that,” I said. “I’m sure you’ve got other plans—”
“Nope—no plans. I just got back into town an hour ago and was planning to watch a movie and go to bed. Very exciting stuff.”
I hesitated. Adam leaned toward me, his elbows resting on his knees. “Please let me do this—it’s the very least I can do after you brought Charlie home safely. Deal?” Hearing his name, Charlie trotted up and nosed his way between us, demanding pets.
“I guess so,” I finally said. Charlie rewarded me with a sloppy kiss.
Before I could change my mind, Adam had whistled for Charlie and was heading for the door.
“I’ll see you around eight or so,” he said. “No excuses.”
*
AT 8:12 P.M., I walked up the porch to Adam’s house and knocked, feeling slightly tipsy. Just before leaving my apartment, I’d impulsively knocked back a double shot of tequila, something I hadn’t done since college. It had burned a trail into my stomach, where it sat like a lump of coal, radiating heat and self-confidence.
Liquid courage! I said to myself as I did one last mirror check before leaving the house. You can do this.
“Perfect timing,” Adam said when he opened the door, a bottle of champagne in his hand. “I was just about to open this!”
I smiled a little too widely at Adam and then leaned over to pet Charlie, noticing he was wearing a silver bow tie.
“What’s this?” I laughed.
“He got all dressed up for you,” Adam said, leading me into the house. He’d changed into a fresh T-shirt and jeans and was barefoot. I’d changed into what I thought was a casual but festive top but now wondered if I looked like Charlie—silly and overdressed. I followed Adam through the public rooms, now dimly lit and deserted, and into the main kitchen. It was a cavernous space, more like a professional catering kitchen than anything else. Adam didn’t stop there, though, but made a slight turn into an adjoining room.
“Where are we going?” I asked, as we entered a breakfast nook with a view of the backyard and then a second, more traditional home kitchen.
“These are the private living quarters. Most of the rooms in the front are for public events, but this is where I really, actually live. It’s weird, huh? Two kitchens in the same house and this whole other section that no one really sees.”
Adam popped the champagne and poured me a glass while I looked around. It was our first time really alone together, and I tried to mask my nerves with a steady patter of superficial questions and observations. I tried not to appear too nosy or stare at anything for too long, but I felt Adam watching me and tried to act casual and nonchalant.
The kitchen and dining area were comfortable and minimally adorned, a bowl of oranges on the breakfast table and a small stack of books piled neatly beside it. To the right was a writing alcove covered with Fairfax memorabilia—name badges, pennants, a stuffed wolverine with a red ribbon around its neck. The bulletin board was thick with invitations, programs, and business cards, interspersed with photographs from official campus functions. I peered more closely. There was a photo of Adam posing with the board of trustees, another from convocation, a third from some kind of alumni function, with Bex smiling beside him.
“Nice pictures,” I said lamely.
We moved into the adjoining living room, where a small fire was burning in the fireplace. Adam held the door open for me and switched on a lamp, which bathed the room in a low, golden light. Through a side door, I caught a glimpse into Adam’s library, the bookshelves wreathed in shadows.
“Please sit,” Adam said, handing me the glass of champagne. I sat on one end of the couch, and Adam took a seat across from me, our knees almost touching. Charlie settled, with a dramatic sigh, into a heap at my feet.
“Cheers!” he said. “To your book!”
We clinked glasses and sipped. Adam found some mixed nuts and chocolates in a holiday gift basket and set them out on the coffee table.
“It must be strange living here,” I said, surveying the carved mantelpiece and the tasteful neutral-colored furniture. “It’s so . . . grown-up.” I thought of Adam’s college dorm room, with its shelves made of plywood and Yaffa blocks and its battered, faded futon. I thought of my own apartment, with its mismatched furnishings and chipped dishes and tumbleweeds of cat hair.
“It is weird,” Adam said. “It’s just me and Charlie rattling around in this huge space. Sometimes I talk to myself just to hear someone’s voice.”
The house was awfully quiet. The sound of the fire crackling in its grate seemed magnified by the silence.
I took a chocolate and bit into it. It was filled with cherry liqueur and I tried not to gag, taking a big swig of champagne to wash it down. “How was your Christmas?” I asked, coughing as the bubbles went up my nose.
“It was relaxing—I went to LA to see my mother. I try to get down to see her at least once a week.”
“Is she doing OK?”
“Yes, she’s doing great. I’ve been trying to get her to stop working so hard, but she won’t listen to me. She retired a few years ago, but you’d never know from looking at her—she barely sat down the whole time I was there.”
“Has she been up here to visit you yet?”
“Just once, for the inauguration. I’d like her to come more often, but she says she doesn’t want to bother me. These official college functions—they can be overwhelming for her. All these strangers, this big old house . . . and, well, she’s still self-conscious about her accent.”
I nodded. The whole time we’d been in college, Adam’s mother had never visited. Partly it was because plane tickets were expensive and she couldn’t take the time off work, but partly, Adam explained, it was because she was intimidated by the campus. During one of our first dates, Adam had told me his mother had been nineteen when she fled Guatemala, taking an infant Adam with her. About his father, Adam said he knew little—his mother refused to talk about him, but Adam suspected he’d been a member of the local militia. Mother and son were understandably close, and they were drawn even closer when Adam was fourteen and his mother informed him that college was out of the question, not because of tuition but because they were undocumented. What followed was a harrowing year of visits to law offices, his mother crying beside him, Adam aware that at any moment they could be deported to a country he did not remember. After nearly two years of desperate prayers, along with letters of support from his school principal, his mother’s employers, and even the archbishop of Los Angeles, Adam and his mother were granted asylum, with a path to a green card and, eventually, citizenship.
“She must be so proud of you,” I said.
“She is—though honestly, at this point all she wants are grandkids.” He laughed ruefully.
“Is that her in the photo?” I asked, getting up to look at a small framed picture on the mantel. It showed Adam beaming beside a slightly built, dark-haired woman in front of a pretty Craftsman house covered in bougainvillea.
“Yes, that’s her. We took that picture a few years ago.”
“Where were you? It looks just like Fairfax!”
“It’s actually in Altadena. I bought her a house there a few years ago.”
“You bought her a house?” I gulped.
“I saved up for a long time,” Adam said, looking embarrassed. “It’s something I’d always wanted to do for her.”
“Wow. You’re like the greatest son ever. All I got my dad for Christmas was a ten-pack of Costco socks.”
Adam laughed. “I’m sure he appreciated them. Very practical, just like him.” Before I could protest, he’d reached over and refilled my glass of champagne.
“How about you? How was your Christmas?” he asked.
“Oh, it was low-key,” I said, taking another sip. “I just spent it with my dad at the retirement home. Luckily, he seems to be adapting better to the environment. He even has a couple of girlfriends.”
“No kidding,” Adam said.
“Yeah, it’s crazy,” I said. The mixture of champagne and tequila was making me feel witty and expansive. “The ratio there is like ten women to each man, so my dad kind of has his pick. Lauren’s freaking out—she thinks it’s weird.”
“Is she up here often?”
“Every once in while. She’s busy with the kids, though, so she kind of depends on me to keep an eye on him during the week. It’s the least I can do—I mean, she’s paying for everything else and all.” I thought again about the Costco socks and cringed.
“Your dad is lucky to have you so close by,” Adam said. “Just being able to see you regularly—that’s a huge gift.”
Adam left to heat up some of his mother’s tamales, switching on the television for me to watch while he was gone. I helped myself to a third glass of champagne, tossed it back, and immediately regretted it. What had I eaten for dinner again? I couldn’t remember, but I was pretty sure it wasn’t much more than a piece of toast or can of soup. The room had started to swirl a little, and I settled back farther into the couch, trying to focus on what was going on on the television. Ryan Seacrest was interviewing people in Times Square, and I suddenly realized it was almost midnight in New York. The camera zoomed in on the ball, and I felt my eyes cross.
Adam returned, and I tried to eat some tamales as daintily as I could, hoping to soak up some of the alcohol.
“These are really good,” I heard myself say. “Tell your mom I said so.” I dropped some food on the carpet and tried, surreptitiously, to wipe it up while Charlie waited at my elbow, eager to help.
The one-minute countdown began, and Adam and I fell silent, watching as the camera panned across the crowds of people in New York.
“It looks cold there,” I said. I tried to think what I should do when the clock hit midnight—wish Adam a Happy New Year? Give him a hug? Clink glasses again? Would Adam kiss me? He was sitting right across from me, our knees practically touching, his arm resting casually beside him. How badly I wanted to reach over and take his hand or, better yet, slip onto the couch beside him and rest my head on his shoulder. My fondest memories of our relationship had been of sitting with him just so, secure and content, his hand in mine. We’d spent one New Year’s in college in just such a way, huddled under a blanket and drinking hot chocolate, ignoring the hoots and hollers of drunken partygoers outside.
“Yeah—I don’t miss New York winters,” Adam said. His fingers drummed the couch cushion softly, and his eyes remained fixed on the television screen.
Definitely no interest here, I thought. He was just waiting impatiently for the ball to drop. I cursed myself for having drunk all the champagne, eyeing the empty bottle and Adam’s still half-full glass. In slow motion, I watched as the ball dropped, followed by fireworks and shot after shot of couples, young and old, kissing each other to ring in the new year. I had just turned toward Adam when my phone buzzed. A text from Rick.
“Happy New Year!”
“Hppy nqq yard!” I texted back. That didn’t look right.
“Doing anything tonight?” he wrote back.
“Nkthing.”
“Are you drunk?”
“N
O
O
!
”
As I fumbled with my phone, I heard Adam go into the library to answer a call from his mother. “Prospero Año Nuevo, Mamá!” I heard him say. “Te quiero.”
While I waited for Adam to return, I suddenly realized I was, indeed, horrifyingly, embarrassingly drunk. So drunk I needed to rest my head on a pillow for a minute lest I throw up the contents of my stomach. I closed my eyes and forced myself to take deep breaths, counting my breaths aloud.
The last time I’d been this drunk was the night Adam and I broke up and I’d gone back to my dorm room and downed an entire bottle of peach schnapps that I found under my bed. I’d gone to bed at six a.m. and nearly slept through graduation, saved only by the angry knocking of my sister at the door. She was furious with me, as was my father, who looked at my swollen face and disheveled hair and shook his head sourly. They left right after the ceremony, skipping my graduation brunch and making no mention of the fact that I’d graduated magna cum laude, marked by a little asterisk by my name in the commencement program. I’d killed myself for that dumb asterisk, wanting to make Professor Russell and my father proud.
In the other room, I could hear Adam continue to talk to his mother, his voice soft and soothing. He must have had a wonderful graduation, I thought enviously. I could just imagine the two of them at brunch, Adam handsome in his cap and gown, his mother beside him, bursting with pride. While they’d been celebrating, I had slipped away, alone, to the post office in Palmer Square. There, I’d dropped the engagement ring Adam had given me into a plain envelope, sealed it shut, and addressed it to Adam care of his mother. I didn’t bother insuring the contents or requesting delivery confirmation, so I never found out if Adam ever got the package. He never tried to contact me, and I was too angry and proud to reach out to him.
From the other room, I could hear Adam wish his mother good-bye and then step out of the library and back into the living room. I forced myself to an upright position but kept my eyes closed.
“Are you OK?” I heard Adam say from far away.
“Yeah,” I said. “Just resting my eyes a little. Don’t mind me. Ima little drunk.”
“The bathroom’s down the hall,” he said.
“Thanks, ’preciate it. Just gimme a minute.”
I heard Adam walk into the kitchen and place some glasses into the sink.
How long ago it all seemed, I thought wearily. I’d been so angry at Adam for so long, but now I just felt embarrassment and shame. I’d behaved badly. I’d humiliated myself. In the years following our breakup, I stopped searching for him online, not wanting to be reminded of the past. Best just to forget it all, I told myself. Adam’s letters, which I’d carefully saved in a shoebox, I eventually tossed into the garbage, along with every other vestige of our relationship—class notes we’d shared, movie ticket stubs, a card tucked into a bouquet of flowers Adam had gotten me for Valentine’s Day. I was sure Adam had done the same. The only thing I couldn’t bear to throw away was the copy of Persuasion Adam had given me—not so much (I told myself) because he’d given it to me but because it was a book, and I never threw away books. To toss a Jane Austen novel into the trash? Now that would be sacrilege.
I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I knew, it was dawn and I heard the sound of sprinklers going off outside. I sat up, disoriented and hungover. For a split second, I thought I was back in my college dorm room, fooled by the dim slant of light through the lead glass windows and the rattling sound of an old radiator. Where am I? I thought. Dully, I realized I was stretched out on Adam’s couch, and he had taken off my shoes and put a blanket over me. A glass of water and a small trash can had been placed next to my head.
I felt my head throb painfully. I’d drooled all over the pillow, and the fabric had left indentations down the side of my face. I couldn’t remember lying down, much less falling asleep, and I wondered if there was anything else I didn’t remember. Had I said or done anything else embarrassing? My face burning, I quickly folded up the blanket, collected my shoes, and crept into the kitchen to see if Adam was up. The kitchen was dark, our two empty glasses of champagne in the sink, the champagne bottle in the recycling bin. I chugged a glass of water, spilled some on myself, tried to mop up the mess with a paper towel, then couldn’t find the trash can before eventually locating it under the kitchen sink. Everything was so tidy and organized, and I found myself stifling the urge to look through the rest of the cupboards. I peeked around the corner and saw a small laundry room with a narrow staircase leading up to the second floor. A minute later, I heard the rustle of Charlie’s tags as he appeared on top of the landing, looking down at me.
“Shhhhhhh!” I said, putting my finger on my lips. “It’s just me.”
Charlie scurried down the stairs and I gave him a quick pet. “Sorry I was such a lousy guest,” I whispered. I found a memo pad on the kitchen table and jotted down a quick note.
“I let myself out. Happy New Year. Anne.”
Before I left, I took one last look at Adam’s living quarters. The place looked immaculate, as if I’d never been there. Satisfied, I eased my way out the back door and picked my way across the damp lawn, Charlie watching me from the window all the while.