A Girl Becomes a Comma Like That (4 page)

“Of course. Yes,” he said.

He kissed my cheek before he left, quickly, awkward in his boots, moving a piece of hair away from his eyes. When the door closed behind him I went to the phone. I called Angela, who had lived in London for a year, with questions.

“How are your hives?” I asked first.

“Everywhere.”

“Is the lotion helping at all?”

“I keep scratching it off,” she said.

“What are you going to do, Ang?”

“I'm going to get my shot, and maybe I'll move to the desert, somewhere hot and dry. I look awful.”

“What about your job?”

“I can't work like this anyway. I'd scare the kids.”

“Is it on your face?”

“At my jawline,” she said. She paused. “Enough about my allergies,” she said. “What's going on with you?”

“That journalist-artist guy just left,” I said.

“Oh yeah, how was your interview?”

“He kissed my cheek.”

“He kissed you?”

“Just my cheek.”

“Still.”

“Do they kiss strangers there? In London, I mean.”

“Never,” she said. “They're cold.”

“Not even on the cheek? It was just a peck,” I explained. “He leaned down and then—”

“Look,” she interrupted, “you're lucky if a Brit kisses you after he fucks you—
before
he fucks you, for that matter. You're lucky if he pats you on the back the morning after, that's how removed and distant they are. You think American men are distant? Goddamn, good luck with this one.”

“It was probably nothing,” I said.

“Doesn't sound like nothing to me.”

“He's a friendly guy, that's all. He's here for a short while, and he wants to make friends.”

“Right,” Angela said, sarcastically.

“Friendly,” I repeated.

“I should know. I fucked a whole bunch of them.”

“I remember the stories, Angela.”

“They were cute.”

“I know.”

“Icy and seductive at the same time.”

“I'm sure it was meaningless. The kiss,” I said.

“And then there's that whole thing about land and territory, ownership and war. It's all about jealousy, rage. We hate each other and are curious as hell.” She was talking more to herself now than to me. “I remember one,” she continued, “tall, big, hair to his shoulders, and a pierced tongue. Do you know what a skillful man can do with a little gold stud in his mouth?”

“I should go.”

“A pierced tongue,” she repeated. “I'm telling you, Rachel, there's nothing quite like it. A pierced nipple on a guy is worthless—all about ego. I mean, how's he going to make you shake with a decorated nipple? A tongue, though, is something else altogether. A man who pierces his tongue is a generous king,” she said, emphatically.

“I have to go.”

“Imagine the pain.”

“I'm imagining.”

“The sacrifice,” she continued.

“I have to go,” I tried again.

“How's your mom? Still upbeat? Still cheerful?” she wanted to know.

 

Angela was convinced that my mother was in denial, that her smile and good mood was a front, and had suggested to me more than once that I intervene, help her open up and discuss her fears and anger. When I asked my mom about the smiling, the shopping, the continuing to teach through the chemo, she said that Angela was well-meaning but still young, that her hives were one thing, but illness was something else altogether. She looked at me hard and said, “I understand a thing or two about time, and I'm not going to waste it on worry.” She'd leave that to me. I did it well, she said. I was an expert.

And she wouldn't waste time in long lines, either, especially in department stores. She'd look at the line, then at me, and I'd shake my head no,
Don't you dare, let's just wait
, and she'd nod yes, and she'd grin, and sometimes she'd even wink, and then she'd start reaching for her wig, and when her hand went up, I'd dart across the store and hide behind a rack of jackets, pretending not to know her.

Sometimes, the people in line were especially stubborn and didn't respond to her lifting the wig up and revealing her smooth forehead, so she'd pull it off completely. She'd stand there, holding the wig at her hip, head shiny, and lean in. She'd whisper that she had cancer, that it had metastasized, and no, she wasn't in a lot of pain yet, but the pain was probably coming, and she didn't have a lot of time, would they mind so much if she moved to the front, she only had this one sweater to buy or this bra or this pretty watch.

On the way home, she'd confide, “I don't know why people let me cut in front of them. It really doesn't
hurt.
When is it supposed to hurt, Rachel?”

And I'd look at my mother's face and try to see it, what it was, what was happening, and my mother would say, “Don't look at me like that. I'm not going anywhere just yet.” And I'd try not to, but it was a hard thing to do, trying not to see what was right there in front of me.

3.

The next night at Ruby's Room I offered Rex up excuses, though he was leaving the country in a matter of days and it wasn't necessary. He didn't think a woman like me, whom he called smart and daring, should be alone. “Why are you still single?” he asked.

“My mom has been sick for four years and she needs all of me,” I said. What I should have said was, My mom has been sick for four years and I need all of her.

“Come on.”

“It's true. I can't think about anyone but her, about what she's in, and everyone else is small compared to that.”

“What about when you're at work?”

“When I'm writing, it's all about her, and when I'm teaching—well, I try to be there for them.”

“What about when you're in bed with someone?”

“It's probably about her too.” I looked at his face, tried to gauge how far I could go. “That's when I'm most aware of what's happening to her, to both of us.”

“You're going to need someone when she goes.” He stopped. “I'm sorry,” he said.

“It's okay.”

“It's not my place …”

I lifted the cider to my lips, then looked away from him, toward the bar. I recognized one of my best students, Ella Bloom, sitting with a young man in a white lab coat. She was stirring a short drink and shaking her head no. She looked angry. The young man was leaning toward Ella, his hand on her knee.

“She's a good writer,” I said, gesturing toward the bar with my chin.

“Oh, yeah?”

“I mean, she's a student now, my student, but her poems are strange and wonderful. She writes about young girls a lot. This last poem was about bats, though.”

Rex shuddered. “My least favorite creatures on the planet,” he said.

I wanted to kiss him then, wanted to tell him I liked him, wanted to promise to always protect him from bats, but we weren't there yet, and I didn't know if we were even on our way. “Remember her name—Ella Bloom,” I told him. “Maybe one day you'll be coming back here to interview her.” I looked at Rex and wondered how many times he'd visit California.

“It's possible.”

“She's newly married. I guess that's her husband there. You think he's a doctor?”

“Too young.”

“You're probably right.” When I turned to look at them again, Ella and her husband had risen from their stools and were making their way toward us. The anger seemed to have disappeared from her face. “Jack, Dr. Spark. Dr. Spark, Jack,” she said, smiling.

“Hi, Jack,” I said. “I'm Rachel. And this is Rex. He's visiting from London.”

“Outside
London. I live on a farm in Hampshire,” Rex corrected me, leaning over to shake hands with Jack.

“I was just telling Rex here about your poems, Ella. That last one floored me.” I turned to Rex. “The one about bats.”

Rex grimaced so that only I could see.

Ella's husband looked at her. “You don't show me those poems,” he said.

Ella shrugged. “They're not finished yet,” she told him.

“They're
my
bats,” Jack said. “I study them, I mean.”

“Awful,” Rex said.

“What was that?” Jack leaned closer to Rex.

“Awesome. I said that's
awesome.”
Rex winked at me. There was a long pause.

“Why don't you join us?” I finally said.

Ella's husband shook his head. “I've got to be at the lab early tomorrow. And then after work we've got Christmas shopping to do, right, Ella?”

Ella nodded.

“Your bats are waiting,” Rex said.

“That's right, waiting. You could say that.” Jack was smiling, sly, like he had a secret.

“Jack works with dead bats,” Ella offered.

“Alive or dead, bats freak me out,” Rex confessed.

“They've got a bad rap,” Jack said. “They're actually quite docile—nothing to be afraid of. They're more afraid of you than you should be of them.”

“Rabies is pretty fuckin' scary,” Rex said. “Where I'm from, there's lots of …”

The cider was hitting me hard, and though I didn't want to be impolite, I really had to pee, so I stood up. “You guys talk,” I said. “I'll be right back, okay?” Rex squeezed my hand, mouthed okay, and I told Ella and her husband that it was good to see them and excused myself. I made my way across one room and into the other. I stepped around a dancing circle of young women and the gawking men surrounding them. I spotted Adam, a former boyfriend, standing at the pool table, chalking his stick, so I picked up my pace. I had safely reached the bathroom door when I was surprised to hear Ella's voice in my ear. She was shouting above the music, something bluesy I didn't know the name of. “I like your class,” she said.

“You scared me,” I said. “I didn't know you were behind me.” My bladder was pounding as I held the doorknob.

“I'm not following you,” she said, and then laughed. “Well, I guess I am. I mean, I guess I did. I wanted to tell you that your class is everything to me.”

“Good. I'm happy you're in there.” I glanced over at Adam, who was leaning down now, moving the stick back and forth between his fingers. I heard him break, the triangle of balls rolling apart. “Look, Ella, why don't you two stay and have a drink with us—I've really got to pee, though. Wait right here.”

She shook her head. “We're in a fight.”

“I'm sorry.”

“He's
sorry,”
she said.

“Oh,” I said, feeling bad for Ella, but also wanting to avoid Adam's seeing me there, and more, feeling as if I was about to burst. I didn't know what to say next, but it didn't matter because her eyes had welled up and she cut me off.

“I've got to go. We've got to go,” she said, her eyes spilling over.

“Wait,” I said, reaching out to grab her hand, but she'd already turned around and was rushing away from me.

When I returned from the bathroom, Rex was alone at the booth, talking into his recorder. He clicked it off, stuck it in his bag, and made room for me. There were two shots at the table, one in front of my glass and one in front of his. “What's this?” I asked, sitting down.

“A treat.” He was grinning. I knew we'd both be drunk very soon. And what the hell. I thought of poor Ella's teary eyes and lifted the shot to my mouth. Rex did the same. “They seem like good people, your student and her boyfriend, but they left rather quickly,” he said after we'd downed them.

“Husband,”
I said.

“A little young for that.”

“For what?”

“For making up their minds already, don't you think?”

“I don't know.”

“It's a big decision.”

“Either way,” I said, “I don't like him.”

“You just met him, Rachel.” He was surprised and maybe a little defensive. I got a sense of what our arguments might be like if he lived here and we fell in love. “You're right,” I said.

“You can't judge a guy in a couple minutes,” he continued.

“You're right,” I said again. And then I couldn't stop myself, “Come on, Rex, didn't the bat-guy freak you out?”

He shook his head.

“Just a little bit? Just a tiny little bit?” I held two barely separated fingers between our faces.