I Liked My Life(75)

I’ve often wondered if the age of your soul correlates with the pitch of your voice; women who screech like Christie tend to come across as newbies. “Oh, Eve, it’s you,” she squeals. “Perfect. Before I grab Kara, give me the quick skinny on whatever’s going on.”

“Going on?”

“With Kara.”

Eve already regrets the call. “I have no idea.”

“Yes, you do. She’s up and down with a bout of PMS that won’t end.” Christie laughs, feeling clever.

“Mrs. Anderson, I wouldn’t know. Really. Kara and I haven’t spoken since tennis ended.”

“Ya. I’m very aware of that. You and everyone else. Why has my daughter been blackballed?”

“Blackballed?”

Christie lets out a haughty scoff. “Eve, dear, cut the act. I want to help Kara through this, but I can’t if I don’t know what happened.”

I wish I had the power to kill the phone line, but I do the next best thing and guide Eve to hang up. “I should go,” Eve says. “I’ll call back another time.” After disconnecting, Eve stares at the receiver unsure what that was about. I wish there was a way to share what I know, but the only one who can tell the story now is Kara, which, of course, will never happen. It’s too complicated to convey a few words at a time without any context.

The phone is still in Eve’s hand when Lindsey calls back. Eve plays back her weird conversation with Christie.

“Blackballed?” Lindsey repeats. “Who even says that? I mean, Kara’s been a spaz lately, but it’s not like anyone’s excluding her. The girl seriously needs to learn to handle her liquor.”

Eve wishes she’d kept her mouth shut. “Well, maybe give her a call in case something really is wrong,” she suggests. “I would, but my dad and I leave tonight for Paris.”

“Oh. My. God. Serious? That’s awesome. He definitely wouldn’t have taken you on a trip like that before.”

Before; a haunting word. “I’ve got to go.”

“Umm, you called me,” Lindsey says, in a masterfully rehearsed teenage voice.

Eve’s teenage voice is out of practice. “Yeah, I did, but now I have to go.” She sounds older than Lindsey, and more noteworthy, she knows it.

“Whatever, Eve. Maybe you should worry about yourself instead of Kara. I swear my two closest friends are going to end up institutionalized.”

This time Eve needs no prompting to hang up. It’s time to get the hell out of here, she thinks. It is a larger notion than she appreciates, meaning immediately for the impending trip, and permanently, with boarding school and college and the rest of her life. I focus my energy so it runs through her, a virtual hug. And then, to my wonderment, I find myself on the receiving end of something similar. Eve’s sentiment echoes back to me as a suggestion from a higher place: It’s time to get the hell out of here. I’m not ready. How? I ask. No response, but a vibration stirs underneath me. It’s weak at first but grows stronger and stronger. When it’s as if my spirit is fully resting on its source, I begin to soar straight up at an alarming pace. It’s exhilarating and full of promise until I worry this is it, I’ll never see Eve or Brady again, and with that thought the ride stops as unexpectedly as it began. I look down, nervous, but life’s movie is still there to view. I just inherited a really crappy seat.

*

Eve and Brady are on an evening flight. The driver arrives at five, but Eve can’t find her headphones. Brady attempts a breathing exercise Dr. White taught him, but doesn’t make it through a full inhale/exhale cycle before screaming, “Come down or I’m leaving without you.”

“Keep your pants on,” Eve yells back. “I’ll be down in two secs.”

They’re quiet on the drive to Logan airport and remain so as they trounce through security to their gate. The silence worries them both. Brady’s been in a funk since D.C. and, since he hasn’t told Eve about Marie and Paul, she’s worried his rut either is caused by their trip to Paris or will be ruined by it.

Momentum shifts in their favor on the plane. Eve flips out when she takes her seat. First class to Paris isn’t your typical oversized leather seat with extra incline—it’s a personal pod that extends to a flat bed. Hers faces Brady’s with a low divider so they can see each other. Eve scrolls through the “free” movies, showering Brady with choices. A flight attendant appears, offering them champagne. Eve looks gingerly to Brady, who gives her a nod. There’s a chance she’ll enjoy the flight more than the actual trip. As they take off, she hands Brady a poem she wrote titled “Typical Teenager,” adding that her contribution to the trip is promising not to be one.

That’s not the right answer.

You didn’t ask the right question.

Will you please give an answer?

I’m afraid of rejection.

So make sure you’re right.

You’ll find a correction.

I won’t say a word.

I don’t need your protection!

So you refuse to answer?

Could you rephrase the question?

Brady folds the paper and slides it into his carry-on. “Now I know you know,” he says smugly.

“Know what?”

“When you’re talking in circles like that all the time, frustrating me. It’s intentional, huh?” He smiles. “You just let the cat out of the bag.”