What We Leave Behind (6 page)

I said, “I think it’s his girlfriend.”

“No way,” he said, “definitely her dad.”

“What makes you so sure?”

“Didn’t you hear what he just said?”

It bothered me to admit, “No.”

“He said, ‘Don’t worry, honey, it’ll all be okay.’”

It seemed that maybe the young girl had heard us. She looked our way, catching Jonas’s green eyes in her own, holding them there for a second. She seemed calmer, more relaxed.

“And that makes him her father?”

Jonas turned back to me. “Didn’t you see her reaction?”

I was baffled how he had become super spy in a matter of moments. It took me years to perfect such skills. “That’s all you could come up with?”

“Don’t you remember being a kid…” and he stopped himself. When he saw that I didn’t find the dig at my youthfulness remotely funny, he continued, “You know, when something bad was happening and everyone would try to tell you it would be okay, and you just refused to believe it, dragging the agony around with you because you knew no matter what they said, it would never get better?”

I half nodded, recollecting more than a few occasions where that was the case.

“It wasn’t until someone like your dad told you it was going to be okay that you believed it.” He stole another glance at them. “Look at her, look how she’s listening to him, look how she believes him. Only fathers have that kind of influence over their little girls. It’s definitely his daughter.” Then he finished off his analysis with a triumphant bite out of his burger.

I was amazed, stunned into silence, something that happened to me infrequently. I found myself achingly sad for my mother, the woman who tried her best to give me the kind of reassurance and comfort that only a father was capable of giving. And now I sat before this boy who could express the words that my heart had felt for so long, but couldn’t pronounce. I looked at Jonas, this time through different eyes. He was in front of me, and we were talking, and we were close; but there was something else connecting me to him, something deeper and greater.

I said, “Maybe you’re right,” but it sounded more like defeat.

“This is part of your problem, Parker. You spend way too much time nosing into everyone else’s business.”

“It’s just a game, Jonas, consider the entertainment value.”

“You keep telling yourself that.”

“It is,” I said.

“Right. Let’s get out of here.”

When we got up from the table, Jonas pushed the chair out of the way so I could get by.  He kept turning to make sure I was following closely behind him, and I was, but all I could think about was how I’d been so wrong about my assessment.

That afternoon was the beginning of a friendship with the distinct trappings of something more. Romantic tension threaded its way through our conversations, capable of tying us up in invisible knots. We ignored it. We chose to talk about everything else in the world—his father’s illness, our future plans, hopes, dreams, the trivial day-to-day nuances that quietly and patiently began to build our foundation.

I thrived on the days I’d see Jonas. The hospital became our little nucleus of a world, the one inhabited by just the two of us. In between tending to my patients and filling out medical forms and claims, stolen moments abounded, thick with deep innuendo, heavy debates about what if and what could have been, a world not bound by his being twenty-two and my being almost sixteen. There were silent moments and unspoken thoughts, times I knew we were relating on a level greater than that of any words we might have spoken aloud. Our conversations were deeply moving and intoxicating.  When we weren’t being sarcastic and sharp-tongued, I’d listen to Jonas speak about something with such enthusiasm, it pained me not to reach over and touch him, to emphasize that I understood how he felt. Then there were the occasions when he’d be talking about someone, and a wistfulness would cloud his face, and I’d think, maybe, just maybe he was talking about me. And when I learned he was not, I never allowed the disillusion to seep in, instead clinging to the intermittent connections that had my heart radiating like an antenna.

Maybe it was all in my imagination and I just reminded him of his little sister, or maybe he was a pervert who liked the attention of younger girls. I didn’t know and he probably didn’t either.

The car lurched forward, and before I knew what was happening, Jonas grabbed the wheel and turned it sharply to the right. “Are you crazy, Jessie? You need to stay within those lines.”

“I told you I suck at driving. I’m never doing it again.”

The evolution of our friendship in the outside world had officially begun. Beyond the hospital doors, Jonas was giving me my first driving lesson.

“If you even went just a little farther to the left, you would have hit that old man on the bike.”

“Do you want the wheel?” I asked.

“Don’t be so pig-headed. You have to practice, but you also have to pay attention.”

How could anyone concentrate on driving with Jonas Levy sitting beside her? And how could I maintain my cool when my palms were sticking to the steering wheel, and I felt more like an octopus with too many arms?

“I’ve told you ten times, you don’t use both feet for driving. The right foot controls the brake
and
the gas.” I pushed on the gas, hearing the car rumble to life.

“Good, now when you want to brake, move it over to the brake pedal. Put the car into drive and let’s try it again.”

“I don’t know why we’re doing this. I don’t need to drive anywhere.”

“Trust me, you’ll be glad you learned. LA’s a big place.”

I switched into gear and maneuvered the car into the street. We weren’t far from the hospital, a peaceful residential community about to be overrun by thrashing metal. How did he persuade me to venture out of our safe habitat and into this wild terrain anyway? I scanned the street before me. There were no little old men on bicycles to worry about, so I pressed on the gas a little harder.

“Good, ease into it,” he said, as if he’d taught driver’s ed his whole life. “You just might be driving by your sixteenth birthday. A little more practice and you’ll ace the test.”

We approached an intersection at the same time as another car. He said, “You know what to do right now, right, when two cars reach a four-way stop sign at the same time?”

I didn’t answer. I vaguely remembered reading about the rules and regulations meant to keep us from hurting others on the road. Why wasn’t there a manual like that for people?

“You did read the driver’s ed guide, Jess, didn’t you?”

“Uh, parts of it.”

He was visibly irritated with me. “The person on the right has the right of way. That’s you. Now go before this guy does and we hit him.”

I pressed my foot gently on the pedal and began to move into the intersection.

“If you don’t know the rules of the road, you’re not going to pass the driving test. The written component is just as important.”

“I told you, I don’t even want the measly license.”

“Watch out!” he cried out. “Brake!”

“What?” I answered, searching the road ahead of me, frantically trying to follow his direction. And there it was, a tiny little duck crossing my path. I hadn’t even noticed him coming in our direction. With both my feet this time, I defied the rules, desperate for the extra push I’d need to stop the unwieldy beast I commanded. The car stopped short, and Jonas and I lurched forward. Without another word, we unbuckled our seatbelts and switched places.

“Fuck the right of way,” I said, backing up against the seat and throwing my legs up onto the dashboard. “And while we’re on the subject, what’s the deal with neutral? I just don’t get neutral. Why would anyone want to be in neutral? You’re either moving forward or moving backwards. Seriously, this whole right of way and neutral business is too complicated.”

“You’re making it complicated, Jess. It’s a driver’s test. Don’t get so bent out of shape.”

But I couldn’t help it. I was fixated on neutral, and where I wanted to be was moving forward, with Jonas, fast. Typical of him not to notice the deeper meaning in what I was saying.

“How are you feeling, Mr. Levy?”

It was a Friday afternoon, the weekend was upon us, and I’d delayed going home. Visiting the Levy family gave me the fictitious belief that I was no longer alone.

“Old,” he answered.

“You’re not old,” I said. “Mrs. Maxwell down the hall, now
she’s really old
. She’s fifty-five.”

“Fifty-five?” he laughed, “I’ll forgive you for that one, Jessie.”

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to say you’re old.”

“It’s okay. Unfortunately I feel like a ninety-one-year-old. It’s not good for business, that much I can tell you.”

“What business is that?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“It matters. What did you do before you got sick?”

“Guess,” he said.

“I love guessing games. Banking?”

“No.”

“Lawyer?”

“Do I come across that boring and stuffy?”

“Absolutely not,” I said with conviction. “You’re the furthest thing from boring and stuffy, especially with MTV playing in your room all day long.”

“Why the uptight professions?”

“I see how the doctors and nurses take care of you, how they respect you. I guess I just see you in a position of power, like Blake Carrington on
Dynasty
.”

“Now that’s a person I’ve never been compared to.”

“It’s not a criticism. Blake Carrington’s a pretty successful guy.”

“Depends on how you define success. For some it’s power and prestige. For others it’s something different.”

“What is it to you?”

“My family.”

“That’s nice,” I gushed.

“You look very happy when you smile,” he noted.

“I was thinking the same thing about you.”

“Then let’s do it more often.”

“It’s a deal,” I said, kindly offering my hand to him, but he was having trouble reaching my fingers with the IV hooked up at an angle that made the stretch painful. His fingers had also turned that eerie shade of blue that Jonas was concerned about. I stretched my arm farther and slid my hand beneath his palm, giving it a friendly squeeze. “There, it’s official. Now, tell me what you do. You’re not some famous celebrity, are you?”

“You are persistent,” he laughed, while a deep cough broke away from his chest. For a brief time, I had forgotten he was sick. “See that?” he said, nodding toward the television. It was MTV again. I was already thrown by his fixation on this new-borne phenomenon and wasn’t sure if it had to do with the network or U2 singing on the screen. “That’s what I do.

“And you see this radio over here?” he said, motioning to the boom box that had been brought in. “That’s part of my job too.”

I had noticed the stereo system, the piles of cassettes, the addiction to MTV, but I figured these were merely hobbies. It never occurred to me that they might make up a profession. Maybe there was hope for me to decide on a career after all.

“Have you heard of Mindy Samuels?”

“Of course.”

“And Chuck Perry?”

“Hello. I’m a teenager in America. Who hasn’t…”

“The Funk Brothers?”

“Oh, my God, I love them. They’re one of my favorites.”

“They’re all part of my job.” He then pointed to the
Los Angeles Times
that lay beside him. His coughing was getting worse.

“Guess you didn’t read the paper this morning?” he asked.

“Only my horoscope, Dear Abby, and tonight’s television lineup.”
This
, I hadn’t seen. There it was, a full-page article about the man in the bed.

“I’m too tired, Jessie. It tells you everything you need to know.”

I held the crisp pages in my hand and began to read.

Adam Levy, the music world’s most respected and talented executive, is facing the struggle of his life. Diagnosed early last year with idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, a life-threatening degenerative disease of the lungs, Mr. Levy is residing in Randalls Hospital in the critical care unit while undergoing treatment for this condition.

Mr. Levy, 49, the reigning president and CEO of HiTide Records, one of the largest and most successful record labels in the business, has stunned the music world with the recent news of his hospitalization. Best known for such acts as the Grammy-award winning Funk Brothers and pop superstar Mindy Samuels, Adam Levy is personally responsible for the success and triumphs of…

I paused from the parade of celebrities to study the picture included in the article. “This is a nice picture of you.” He was a handsome, virile man with a full head of hair, clean lines, and his son’s eyes; only the picture was black and white, so the people of Los Angeles were cheated out of the spectacular color. I continued reading to myself, the words summing up Adam’s Levy life, the beginning, the chances he took, the praise he received.

“It’s unheard of, the type of success Adam Levy has achieved in this transient, ever-changing, fickle music community, but the statistics prove it,” said his long-time rival Blake Friedman of Sony Music in New York. “I should despise the guy for his knack of finding number one acts, but he’s just too decent and human of a guy. Anyone who meets the man can’t say enough about him.”

Doug Henry of Rolling Stone, recently wrote, “Adam Levy is one of the true talents of music media today. He can fine-tune an artist like one might an old piano. He plucks unknowns off the street, hands them over to the right personnel, and before you blink, they are an American Top 40. His gift is one that no other label executive has been able to procure.”

When interviewed by the Times just last year, Adam Levy told reporter Ken Ronberg that the key to his professional success was, merely, “Doing something I love to do.”

Mr. Levy is married to Rachel, his wife of 25 years, and they have two children, Jonas, 22, and Amy, 12.

“They make you sound dead already.”

“They do, don’t they?” he said, sullen and afraid.

“I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have said that.”