Aftermath of Dreaming(44)

“How are you?” he’d immediately say on the phone if people were in the room, skipping the “Hi,” that short sound he managed to brand all his own. Then after my answer, “Where are you?” It was giving my coordinates to him—he who could better read the map—the longitude and latitude of my emotions and self, fixed on a point, in relation to all the other marks of how and where I’d been. He was my navigational system, no longer did I need to rely on the distant North Star.



Andrew was sitting on the yellow silk couch, and I was perched on the coffee table facing him with my legs between the open spread of his and my chin once again in his hand. He picked up my hands, studying each of my nails. I was hoping he would drop the doctor routine and get romantic so we could get in bed, when he said, “I bet you’re anemic.”

I thought it was much simpler than that—I needed to eat.

“You vegetarians never get enough iron or protein. I want you to see a doctor this week.”

“Okay.” I had no intention of spending money on that. I hadn’t opted for health insurance at work, and I could just as easily tell myself what a doctor would say—take iron and eat three meals a day.

I was ready for this topic to end, so I leaned forward to kiss him, my hands rubbing his legs down, around, and inside, and he started to move his lips toward me, but broke away.

“I want to show you something.” He went into the bedroom and came back with a folder of large, glossy pictures, which he spread out on the coffee table next to me. I moved to the couch so I could see. “This is where I’ll be.”

It was wonderful and horrible to see the locale that would possess him. I pictured him as he was now—barefoot, black T-shirt and jeans, comfortable in his hotel-living mode—superimposed on each photo. I wanted his easily accessible phone to be going, too.

“It’s beautiful. How long will you be?”

“I don’t know, honey.” Our heads were bent gazing at the landscapes, surely opposing responses to them in our heads.

“Are you excited to go?” I couldn’t look at him when I said it. I wanted to be happy for him, but knew my voice would break if I saw his eyes, knowing they’d be leaving.

“Yeah.” He tested the word. “More ready than excited.” Then he looked at me seriously and touching his finger to my nose said, “I’m excited about your show.”

“I wish you were gonna be here for it.”

“I know, honey, but it’s going to be great—you big f*cking art star.” And he grinned at me, drawing me into him, my face in his chest, my arms around his back.

“While you’re there,” I said, the words muffled a bit by his soft T-shirt. “Will you think about me?”

“Will you think about me?”

I looked up into his eyes. “Every hour every day.”

“Good.” He kissed the top of my forehead, seeming to end the conversation.

“But are you gonna think about me?” My words held down a wail. With all the things he’d have to do in that distant land and so many people needing him, was there still going to be room in his mind for me?

“Will you, Andrew?”

“Yes, Yvette, I’ll think about you.” He kissed me on the lips, quick, soft, and sweet, then turned his hands into fists, playfully swatting me while I moved and turned to regain our embrace.

The phone rang. It was past eleven on a Monday night, and the hotel had been slumbering when I walked in at ten, the beguiling stillness of Central Park extending across the street into the lobby.

Andrew listened on the receiver and said, “Send her up.”

“Who’s that?” I suddenly worried it was Lily; that he’d forgotten we shouldn’t meet.

“A friend of mine. You’ll like her; you’ll see.”

The elevator his friend took apparently was an express because the ones I took to Andrew’s suite seemed to mosey along. Within seconds it seemed, there was a knock at the door.

He was in the foyer with her far too long. I looked at the pictures again. I killed some time hating the clothes I had on. I thought about going to the window to get a better look at the view, but decided I didn’t want to give up the couch—Andrew most likely would sit on it, and I wanted to be closer to him than she would be.

Finally, they walked in. Andrew’s hand was on the small of her back. I made myself notice it, this same gesture he used with me, to see it and decide it meant nothing about us that he was using it with her. A vision of being dropped off at school by my father on days I’d missed the bus suddenly hit me. Him being in an environment I wasn’t used to seeing him in made his withdrawal from me all the more excruciating, so I could barely tolerate watching his Cadillac pull away. Sitting on Andrew’s couch and seeing his hand on this other girl’s back was like standing under the school’s portico, needing to run to class, but forcing myself to watch my father’s car recede.

She sat in an armchair. Andrew sat in the opposite one to the left of me, facing her. All we needed was a fourth for a game of bridge. One sweep of his hand cleared the pictures off the coffee table, then he slid them into their folder, and put it down on the floor. At least she didn’t get that part of him.

Her name was Susie. Or Suzy, I guess. She was a writer, Andrew didn’t say what kind, but I made a mental note to dislike anything written by someone with that first name, since I’d probably never know her last. She clearly was years older than me, six or seven at least, and was extremely pretty. When Andrew told her that she was, as I was certain he did, she probably took it as her due. There was an ease to that blessing gracing her face, uncomplicated to enjoy like hot chocolate.