The Girls of August (5 page)

Within a month our pronouns had changed.
We
like piña coladas.
We
don’t like to do anything before ten on Sundays. Yes,
we
will be happy to come to your Halloween party. Within two months we were a bona
fide couple. Within four I couldn’t help myself: I sometimes dreamed of baby names.
Claudia
.
Tobias
. At six months, when I thought about the future, for the first time in my life,
I saw happiness. I saw a life built out of the desires of two people in love. I
saw children and houses and holidays and all the family trappings wrapped in shades
of yellow, for I believed in what Tiffany Hodges had said:
Yellow doesn’t end. It just goes on and on and on
.

I met people—Rachel, Oliver, Hugh. Mac and I became dear friends, and I did recognize
but didn’t fret over the fact that I was perpetually delighted to see him. All of
us hung out together, had dinner at each other’s apartments, gossiped about mutual
friends and enemies.

And then came the Christmas party held at the Hermitage Hotel, that grand old dame
bejeweling downtown Nashville with its ornate columns and arches, its gleaming paneled
rooms alight with chandeliers and sconces and candles and cut crystal vases.

We’d pretty much overtaken the hotel—a band called Rufus and the Sliders played top
forty in the ballroom. When they tired of dancing, residents, doctors, wives, girlfriends
drifted into the comfort of giant couches in the magnificent, skylighted lobby. Those
who’d had enough of the music and wanted to talk quietly or intently drifted into
the Oak Bar for martinis or sodas.

We were dressed to kill in silks and tweeds and stockings and all manner of finery
that glittered. I wore a black ruched dress that fit me like water on steel. It was
cut low in front, lower in back. I was taking a chance in this dress. It was a take-no-prisoners
statement, but still decorous, only hinting at danger.

Teddy held me close as we danced to Lionel Richie’s “Hello.” We slowly swayed to
and fro and when he sang sweet and low into my ear the lyrics “And I want to tell
you so much, I love you,” I thought I’d grown wings and flown to heaven.

The song ended and I didn’t know how I was going to do it, but I was determined to
make my way to the restroom and gather myself. I caught Rachel’s eye. She slipped
from Oliver’s grip and, being a girlfriend with a sixth sense, rushed over and said,
“Teddy, I’m borrowing your sweet gal for a moment. We’ve got to powder our noses,
don’tcha know.”

“Well, don’t borrow her for too long,” he said, kissing my cheek. “I might get lonely.”

“Fat chance,” Rachel shot back and she looked at him as if he wasn’t fooling her or
anyone else.

Her stance confused me, but in my state of momentary exultation, I ignored any possible
chance to feel anything other than supremely happy.

I took her arm and she steered us over to Barbara, who had just planted a sloppy kiss
on Hugh’s big face.

“Girl time. Let’s go,” Rachel ordered, her voice deep and clipped.

Barbara, who was obviously tipsy and dressed in a skintight zebra-striped sheath
(those were very bad fashion days), wiggled her fingers at Hugh. “I’ll be right back,
baby!”

She stood, wobbly in her bejeweled black stilettos. A crooked smile crept across Hugh’s
face and he slapped her on the ass.

“Dr. Fowler,” she cooed, “behave yourself!”

The three of us linked arms, drifted out of the ballroom, and made our way through
the lobby and finally into the ladies’ room. I fanned my face with my hand. “Oh my
God!”

“What, what’s going on?” Rachel asked. “You’re acting like you’re fourteen.” She
opened her evening bag and withdrew a cigarette.

Barbara hung on to the counter and said, “Woooo. I think I’ve had too much bubbly.”

“Listen!” I said, happiness coursing through me like a sparrow on the wing. “I think
Teddy told me he loved me!”

Rachel took a drag and blew the smoke in a roiling stream, angling it so that it missed
her eyes. “Really?”

Barbara squealed and then threw her arms around my shoulders. “Yay!”

Her reaction was unreliable at present, so I focused on Rachel’s. “I think so.”

“What do you mean, you think so? Either he did or he didn’t.”

“This is wonderful news,” Barbara said, slurring every single word. She let go of
me and stumbled backward but the wall caught her.

“He sang me the ‘I love you’ lyrics.” I turned to the mirror, opened my bag, withdrew
my compact, and dabbed the shine off my face, watching Rachel all the while. She
seemed impressed.

“Hmm.” She cocked her head and took another drag. “That beats all.”

“What do you mean?” Even I noticed that my voice lowered a register as I asked the
question.

Barbara wobbled over to the love seat in the corner. She kicked off one shoe. “Don’t
let me drink any more.”

“Look, honey, don’t get me wrong. It’s just that Oliver said the other night that
he was a little worried. That you looked so smitten and happy. And, well, he thinks
Teddy isn’t ready to commit. Something about guys being guys.”

“What are you trying to say?” I knew he could go out with just about anybody. But
had I fooled myself into thinking he actually liked me, that I was somehow special?

Rachel shook her head as if freeing it of stupid thoughts. She pulled out a tube
of gloss and painted her bottom lip. She paused and, holding the gloss aloft, said,
“Obviously Oliver is wrong. Just look at you! And look at Teddy!” She leaned into
the mirror and glossed her top lip. With the job done, she said, “I think you two
were made for each other. And you know what I always say…”

“What’s that?” I asked, choosing to believe in her upbeat assessment and block Oliver’s
words from my mind.

“Lyrics never lie.” She stubbed out her cigarette in the sink and we started giggling.

Barbara kicked off her other shoe and curled up on the love seat. She yawned and then,
within seconds, fell sweetly asleep.

“Goodness! I’ve never seen her this smashed before,” I said, walking over to her.
She was snoring, light and breathy, like a child. “What should we do?”

Rachel glanced over her shoulder. “Just let her sleep. We’ll tell Hugh he needs
to take her home. In fact, they ought to take a taxi. He’s pretty smashed too.”

Her words slid right off me. In truth, I had only one thing on my mind. I went back
to the mirror, fluffed my hair, refreshed my lipstick, and hummed the aching, soft
refrain, hearing the words in my mind.
Hello, is it me you’re looking for
?

Rachel lacquered on more mascara. She looked as if she could have been Raquel Welch’s
not-quite-as-glamorous, shorter sister (in my imagination Raquel was eight feet tall).
Rachel stared at herself in the mirror, a warrior queen ready to do battle. “Let’s
go get our men.”

We headed out, greeting some women I only faintly knew as they made their way in
and started laughing when they spied Sleeping Beauty. I didn’t care. Nothing anybody
could say or do would mar this perfect evening. We stepped into the glittering lobby.
Rachel immediately spied Oliver by the stairs and whispered in my ear, “I’ll see
you later. And don’t worry. I’ll deal with Barbara and her sodden beau.”

“Thanks, honey,” I said, squeezing Rachel’s hand before she drifted toward Oliver.

I headed back to the ballroom, assuming where I’d left Teddy was where I would find
him. But as I picked my way through the happy crowd milling about in the lobby, I
saw him. He stood, dashing in his charcoal three-piece suit, by the red love seat
located directly under the domed skylight. He was in deep conversation with someone
who was seated out of my range of vision. I started toward him, his possible admission
of love propelling me forward, joy and hope fueling my brief journey. And then I
stopped, suddenly aware of the hard floor beneath my feet, because the person he
was in conversation with offered him her hand, which he took, and when she stood,
my blood chilled. Blonde and stunning. Pale and glimmering. Her strapless white gown
flowed like starlight. She was my opposite. She was Barbie-doll, Daisy Buchanan
beautiful. I was quirky, minor-character attractive. She emitted not a single flare
of insecurity.

They walked toward the ballroom. Actually, she glided. People with money could do
that—glide across surfaces the rest of us stumbled over. I froze, paralyzed by the
possibility that I’d been jilted in the time it had taken to refresh my makeup. But
then I thought,
He can’t do this to me. I won’t let him
. That was my joy talking. It didn’t want to let go.

So I followed them. And I was right. Everything was OK. She had a date. A new resident.
I didn’t even know his name. Teddy handed her over. Everyone was smiles and laughter.
I walked over and lightly tapped his arm.

“Oh, there you are! I’ve been looking everywhere for you!” He kissed my cheek, and
he smiled as if he’d really meant those lyrics.

And my blood flowed again.

Mac had not been at the Christmas party. He pulled a double shift so more of his
colleagues could go. And though he was in our circle of friends, he never stayed
very long at our parties, nor did he have a steady girlfriend. Mac simply had friends.
And everyone seemed to admire him. What was there not to admire? He was affable,
almost always in a good mood, sweetly handsome, and generous to a fault.

Every time I arrived at the hospital for my shift, there would be two sugar cookies
in my message box, wrapped in red cellophane and tied with a pink ribbon. For the
longest time I thought the sweet gift was from Teddy. But one late afternoon, after
I’d thanked him for them, he said indignantly, “Those are from Mac. Not me,” as if
he would never stoop so low as to engage in a gesture that suggested sap ran through
his veins.

At any rate, the cookies always gave me the perfect excuse to go see Tiffany Hodges.
One for her, one for me. We would talk about what she did not have: the future. She
told me she wanted her first prom dress to be cornflower blue to match her eyes.
She wanted to be both an artist and an archaeologist because artists created life
and archaeologists studied it. She was iffy about children but definitely wanted
a dog.

I loved Tiffany Hodges for many reasons, including the fact that she taught me about
the power and grace you gain when you never feel sorry for yourself.

Two days after Christmas—I had seen Teddy only once since the Christmas party and
that was for coffee in the cafeteria because his schedule, he said, had “exploded”—I
took the morning shift simply because I could, given that I was on holiday break.
There in my message box were the cookies. I grabbed them, thought I should seek out
Mac and thank him, but perhaps I wasn’t supposed to know the identity of my sweet
tooth benefactor. After all, he’d never mentioned the cookies, so perhaps the proper
thing to do was play along with the mystery.

As I pocketed them and headed up to the CCW, I thought,
Two birds with one stone
: I’d stop in and see Tiffany, who had spent Christmas at home, but was back with
us because her white blood cell count had dipped, and perhaps I’d run into Teddy.

Tiffany sat in a wheelchair in her usual spot, by the window that looked out over
the grand old oak. Her back was to me and as I approached, she turned around. I couldn’t
help myself. I caught my breath and then forced a smile. The child looked far gaunter
than I was prepared for.

“Maddy!” she said. Her smile was as incandescent as ever but her startling blue eyes
flashed something else, something that I would later decide had been brought about
by her being in the company of pain and certainty for far too long. We all know
we’re going to die, but we spend most of our lives denying it. Death was with Tiffany
always. It was in the mirror each time she dared look at her reflection. It was in
the IV drip that sent pain meds and chemo into her failing veins. It was in every
numbered breath she took.

She reached out to me and I started to unwrap the cookies so that I could place
one in her waiting palm. “No,” she said, “give me your hand.”

And I did. She took mine in both of hers and studied it. She ran her fingers along
the bony ridge of each of my knuckles. She traced my lifeline with the tip of her
pinky. She moved on to my wrist, finding my pulse, and whispered, a note of wonder
softening her voice, “Do you ever wonder what you will look like when you’re an old
lady?”

I gazed out the window. It was snowing. And the world was changing.

“Yes.”

On New Year’s Eve, after being off for two days, I again worked the morning shift.
Rachel and Oliver were throwing a bash at Oliver’s apartment. Teddy, in a hurried
phone conversation, told me he would meet me there because he would be working late.
I was OK with that. I had caught up with him the day Tiffany studied my palm, over
coffee and a shared slice of apple pie, but even then his pager had kept going off.
So I was looking forward to the party with an urgency well reserved for lovesick
teenagers.

I arrived at the hospital determinedly optimistic about prospects for the new year
and my life with Teddy. I stamped my feet before entering the big double doors, the
crunchy sound of ice being sloughed off reminding me of a childhood Christmas we
had spent in Maine when I was six. I remembered the red coat I wore and my mother’s
cigarette smoke hanging heavy in the cold, cold air. For some reason the memory prompted
a melancholy ache that threatened to move from my spine into my heart, but I sloughed
that off too and bustled into the hospital with every intention of spreading new-year
cheer wherever I could.

First and foremost: Mac’s cookies. Yes, they were there where they always were: in
my message box along with a couple of belated Christmas cards from other Pink Ladies
whom I barely knew. I pocketed the cookies and made a beeline to the CCW. I wanted
to greet Tiffany bright and early. I pushed away thoughts of what it must be like
to greet a new year knowing you’re going to die.