Rocked by Him (7 page)

Lucinda handed me my folder for the day. Bud's voice emanated out through the door, and I shot her a look.

"He's giving that presentation you were working on. So you're safe. I won't tell him," she said.

"Thanks!" I said, relieved to find this current folder was only about half as thick as the one I'd gotten yesterday.

I actually smiled on the way to my cubicle. Things were starting to look up! First, free breakfast from a cute guy, now, what looked like a lighter work
day. I might actually not be the last person out of the office for once!

Sitting, I started the process of booting up my computer. It was then I remembered the couple of small
knickknacks I'd set away in my purse to customize this tiny space a little. Make it feel slightly less like the sterile office environment it was.

I reached into my purse and my fingers closed around the letter from my mom. I'd forgotten about it.

I opened it, pulling out of the paper and holding it flat on my desk beside my keyboard. My eyes scanned the lines quickly. I realized I’d only really given it a cursory glance before, too concerned with getting out the door.

My smile dropped away from my face, and my mouth went dry.

My dad was pretty young, comparatively. So it was pretty concerning to the whole family when, about a year ago, our GP referred him to an Alzheimer's specialist. Dad was beginning to show signs, then.

According to my mom, he was getting worse, much worse. There was talk of hiring live-in help. Though I didn't know where mom thought she could get the money for that.

I turned the letter over and shoved it to the corner. Then I put my face in my hands and leaned forward. The pressure against my eyelids made spots of color explode in my vision.

One of my earliest and most fond memories of dad was when I was about three years old. We had one of those rope-and-board swings hanging from the thickest branch of the maple in our backyard.

It was fall, so the leaves were all brilliant oranges and reds. As he pushed me, those leaves started raining down around us. The colors were so vivid in my mind's eye. I remember both of us laughing, smiling. Both of us happy. It was like an image out of some beautiful snow globe.

The login prompt popped up on my monitor just as the air conditioning kicked on again. Cold air spewed down my body, spilling down the back of my neck and leaving my skin pebbled with goosebumps.

It didn't help my mood at all.

This was almost worse than getting a letter saying he had died. It was awful. He was still here in body, but his mind was being slowly destroyed, that awful disease claiming his personality and memories piece by piece.

Suddenly, that manila folder on my desk seemed the least important thing in the world. All those thoughts just minutes ago, those goals of becoming completely career-oriented, seemed so lackluster, so unworthy of the effort.

Sighing, I pulled the few pictures from my purse and taped them to the back wall of the cubicle. There was a family portrait. We all had ugly Christmas sweaters on. It was from last year. We'd all bought each other the ugliest ones we could find,
then got that portrait taken.

Mine had a combination of red and green stripes so loud it was like two neon signs had puked on me. Sarah, my sister, had bought that for me. I'd bought
mom's.

But we were happy. Those weren't fake smiles.

I must have sat at my desk for the next fifteen minutes looking at that picture. Did I still have that sweater somewhere, or had it been donated or chucked? I really, really wanted to have it, to put it on. Like it could magically transport me back in time to that happy moment.

That just led to other, unpleasant thoughts. Was that going to be our last ugly sweater Christmas photo?
Our last real family photo?

I hadn't even logged into my account yet. I knew that I should, that throwing
myself into work again might help. Just like it had helped with not thinking about Jerry.

But I couldn't. I kept willing my fingers to move, pleading with them to type in my username and password. If that Windows desktop popped up, I knew that I could start. I could put all this to the back of my mind and then give mom a call after work.

My fingers must have thought it was all even more pointless than my mind did.

You'll lose your apartment, my conscience prodded. You won't be able to see Drake again; you'll have to pack up and move home.

Home, with mom and dad. On one hand, that sounded great! I could be near him. I could play him his favorite music and talk about great memories. Maybe it would be enough to keep him with us.

On the other hand, maybe it would simply make me an eye witness as to the destructive power of the disease. I'd be there to watch him dwindle away, to go deeper and deeper into that dark pool of forgetfulness that nothing could pull him free.

The phone rang. Its little red light lit up, glaring at me. I jerked back in my chair, staring at it.

It had to be Bud or Lucinda. They were the only ones who would call this line. Lucinda, as far as I knew, had no reason to call. It had to be Bud.

He could see what I was doing on my computer. Had his presentation finished? Had he looked to find that I wasn't even logged in yet?

I couldn't deal with another of his disgusting attempts to flirt with me. He always
tried to touch me, too...

I just couldn't handle that right then. So I grabbed my purse and made it half way to the elevator when I remembered that I'd left the picture up on the back wall of the cubicle. I had to go all the way back in, yank it off, and then make another retreat.

I knew as soon as the elevator door closed that it was a mistake. I'd left Lucinda hanging.

Would she cover for me? More likely, she'd get blamed for not knowing where I was.

A man with short grey hair and a business suit the same color walked in. He eyed me for a moment before turning around and staring right at the panel of buttons.

My face felt hot and puffy. I knew my eyes had to be all red. It probably looked like I was just able to keep myself from bawling.

He probably thought I'd just been fired or something. Though, I imagined that to be in my near future as well.

My cell started buzzing in my purse as I walked down the street towards the subway. I ignored it.

It didn't stop even after I got back to my apartment. I slammed the deadbolt into place, kicked my shoes off my feet, and ran to the bedroom. The mattress groaned as I flopped down on it.

My pillowcase smelled of sweat. I hadn't done laundry recently. That mundane thought popped into my head, like my brain was trying to push my distress away.

No, I hadn't done laundry yet. I hadn't run the dishwasher in two days, either. Or wiped the furniture for dust, or gone to get groceries.

I pulled the pillow tight over my face, ready to let loose a scream. They always did that in movies, and right then it looked like it would feel so very good.

Before I could do anything, the phone rang. My first instinct was to ignore it. And I did. But it just kept ringing. Six times, seven, eight...

Finally, I rolled out of bed, marched into the small den, picked up the phone and pressed it to the side of my face.

"What?" I said, my teeth clenched.

I knew I shouldn't use that sort of tone, that I was projecting my anger and frustration onto whoever was on the other end. I hoped it would turn out to be a telemarke
ter or someone like that. Someone I wouldn't feel too bad about tearing into. I needed to vent.

"Hey, it's me."

A male voice. Smooth, assured. Yet, the phone changed it just enough that I didn't immediately recognize the owner.

"Who's 'me?'" I said. I grabbed the coils of the phone cord, ready to rip it out. It would feel so good to break something.

"Is everything okay? You sound..."

"No, everything is not okay! Who the hell is this?"

"It's me, Drake."

I froze. A lump formed in my throat.
Drake? My eyes widened. I couldn't let him be near me when I was like this. Weren't girls supposed to have some sort of mystery about them? Some secrets held back so that the guy had to do some chasing?

I thought you didn't care if he liked you or not?
my conscience taunted. I gave it a mental "shut up!"

"Oh... Hi. Yeah, now's not the best time, okay?"

"Do you want to talk? You sound pretty upset," he said. Was that actual concern I heard?

It sounded genuine. But this guy was a player.
A singer in a band who brought home a different girl every night. It was probably just some trick to try and get me alone in an emotionally compromised state of mind. Wasn't that their game?

Though being able to talk with someone about this sounded nice. I thought I should call mom.

"No... Thanks, I mean, but I can't. Something pretty serious has come up. I just can't talk about it, okay?"

There was silence for a few moments. "Are you sure? I am a pretty good listener."

"Really, I can't. Look, we'll talk some other time. Bye."

As I hung up the receiver, I heard his voice again. I couldn't make out what he said.

I rubbed at my eyes again, enjoying that pressure. It hurt just enough to take my mind momentarily from the present moment, into some place between thoughts and feelings.

Unfortunately, I couldn't keep it up very long. Soon enough, I found myself staring at the phone. It was a sleek
black wall mount with a white AT&T logo beside the tiny LCD screen.

Jerry had picked it out, and I'd been a little surprised that he hadn't taken it back. Maybe the woman he was with had a nicer model or something.

If I hit the directory button, then the little down arrow three times, it would bring up mom's number. Then, if I picked up the receiver, it would dial. A few very simple actions. Too simple, it seemed. The call itself would be hard, why should placing it be so easy?

Mom would let me come home, I knew. I tried to draw this pre-call moment out as long as I could. Yeah, she'd answer, be surprised to hear me (she always insisted on corresponding by letter!).

At first, she'd resist the idea of me coming back. Then I could spring the whole Jerry breakup on her. If that didn't work, I'd just tell her that my boss propositioned me on a daily basis.

Yeah, that would do it.

It felt like I had arrived at some sort of turning point. Though, maybe calling it a breaking point would be more apt. I knew, intellectually at least, that even if I convinced her to let me come home, I could renege on the whole thing and try to tough it out in New York.

But if she did agree (and she would) I also knew that I would let it happen. I'd move home, away from all this. I might fret about it, regret it,
bitch to whatever friends came to visit. But I'd never come back here.

I started reaching for the phone. My heart lurched. My stomach twisted itself up. The sounds of engines and brakes from the street four floors below got louder, deafening even.

I pushed the menu button, bringing up the directory. My finger poked the down key once, twice...

Someone knocked on the door. I almost didn't hear it. I almost discounted it out of hand. Right then, the only person I could think
of who would be knocking was Jerry, and I didn't want to see him. What if he wanted the phone back?

So I ignored it, even as it grew more insistent. Had I locked the door? I couldn't remember.

I hit the button for the third time. The little screen displayed "Jenn Mom and Dad." All I had to do was pick up the receiver. If mom answered the phone, she always did so within three rings. Another of her quirks. If she didn't get to it by the third, she let the machine take it.

Otherwise, people might think she was being rude, or screening her calls. What can I say? She's a weird one.

Then the door opened. I snatched my hand back, a sudden anger flaring through me. Jerry had moved out, dumped me. What made him think he could just come right back in any time he wanted?

I squeezed my hands into fists so tight that my nails bit into my palms as I marched over to the entry hall.

"God damn it, Jerry, what do you think you're doing?"

But it wasn't Jerry standing there. It was Drake. He'd paused in mid-stride, halted by the venom in my voice most likely. He had a brown paper bag, like the ones some of the grocery stores around here still used, under one arm.

"Hey," he said, smiling.

I wilted, the anger draining out of me, leaving my shoulders sagging.

"Hi," I said.

Then I rushed into the kitchen. I leaned against the counter, one hand over my heart. What was he doing here? I didn't want him to see me like this! I had to look awful. I'd run my hands through my hair so many times it had to look like a bird's nest up there. I didn't even want to know what my eyes looked like after rubbing them so much!

"Damn it, damn it," I whispered, looking around the kitchen as though it contained a solution. All it had was the baker's rack against one wall (with the microwave on it) and my small, circular breakfast table.