Always the Last to Know(56)

He didn’t answer, nor did I expect him to. I just wanted him to know I wasn’t resentful or furious or sobbing on my desk . . . even if I’d sobbed a little.

In a way, his engagement freed me. I didn’t have to justify or prove myself, because Noah wasn’t out there, watching and waiting and judging anymore. I relaxed, not knowing my heart had been clenched with tension until it loosened. Something softened in me. Now when I saw that New York confidence, when I read about Aneni’s latest show, I felt the familiar sense of wonder, but it was no longer infected by envy. Maybe I’d never be them, those brilliant, sharp-edged, confident New Yorkers, but it was okay. I was doing just fine.

I got a couple of raises at St. Catherine’s—Sister Mary seemed to like me. Teaching was more fun than I’d expected, introducing the kids to Picasso and Seurat, Jackson Pollock and Georgia O’Keeffe. I was told I was loved multiple times throughout the day, and was the beneficiary of many hugs. At least once a month, a kindergartener or first grader would propose. It was good for the ego, all those bright eyes and happy faces, and it was nice to leave them, too, and return to my lovely apartment in the armpit of the city.

Though I was embarrassed by their utter vapidity, the couch paintings were profitable. I could bang out one of those in a couple of hours, depending on the medium and size. If it looked like something you’d buy at Target, so be it. I still got to sign my name and deposit a sizable check. I took down my website, since nothing I was doing needed to be immortalized in cyberspace.

I saw friends often and enjoyed the nights when I was alone, despite the urge to machete my way through Times Square on the way home every night. (Tourists taking pictures of neon signs should be thrown in jail. There. I was a true New Yorker.) I even dated a little. A slurry of first dates, one regrettable hookup, then a nice person named Sam. We dated for a few months—he was a funny guy who did something with the waste water of New York City. I liked him very much. We never had a bad time together. One night, when we’d been together long enough that we didn’t wonder if we were going to spend the weekend together, he said (in bed, no less), “I think I’m falling in love with you, Sadie.”

I replied with, “Oh, wow, that’s so . . . flattering.”

Thus ended Sam and me. I was grateful he broke it off before we got more entangled in each other’s lives. Breaking another heart was not something I could handle. And besides . . . I think I’m falling in love with you? Kind of tepid. I’d never had to ponder that with Noah. It was, to quote the great Stevie Wonder, signed, sealed, delivered. Done.

Once in a while, I’d check Gillian’s Facebook page. She was the kind of bride who gave me a rash—obsessed with the me-ness of the upcoming day. “Which bouquet do you like best?” she’d ask. Sure, sure, she was an event planner, but come on. She had Pinterest boards of dresses, bouquets, centerpieces, bridesmaid dresses. She had a bachelorette weekend with her twelve closest friends in Miami (those poor women . . . I imagined it cost them thousands), and every photo showed Gillian’s blinding white teeth in a near-feral smile. She wore a tiara that said BRIDE, in case we were unclear.

In short, she was milking every drop of attention she could possibly get, and while I tried not to hate her, I failed. She had a countdown to the wedding on all her pages. Every frickin’ day, she mentioned something wedding related, even posting a picture of the white corsety thing she’d be wearing under her gown. For Pete’s sake, as my mother would say.

Then, four months before the “Big Day,” there came a cyber-silence (not that I was stalking her or anything). Five days later, she posted that she appreciated all the concern and kindness, but she and Noah were going their separate ways. No one was to blame, and they’d stay friends. He was wonderful, and she wished him only the best.

I clicked off immediately, shoving aside the shameful rush of satisfaction. Their breakup was too personal for me to read about, even if she’d posted it for all to see. Noah didn’t have a Facebook page, except for his business: Noah Pelletier Fine Carpentry, on which he posted pictures of kitchen cabinets and decks and, in one case, a rather magical tree house made for one of the summer people.

I didn’t send a card this time. Somehow, some way, even though we hadn’t spoken for years now, I felt responsible for his heartache.





CHAPTER SEVENTEEN





John


Here are the things he knows.

The old man in the house . . . it’s him. He finally understands how the mirror works, and that old man is him. He’s gotten much older. He looks like his father.

The big man who helps him is named LeVon. He is a friend, but not really, because he works for John. But John thinks of him as his friend and would like to talk to him, but talking isn’t happening.

He has had something called a stroke and a BLT. Or not a BLT, but something like that. A BLT is a sandwich with bacon, and John likes bacon. But the thing he has means his brain has been hurt. His little daughter tells him not to worry about this because he’ll be better soon. His big daughter says less. She is less happy than his little daughter, even though she has very pretty little girls herself. This means she is a mother now. John doesn’t remember that, or the little pretty girls, and that makes his eyes wet and sloppy.

When the little pretty girls are here, he likes it. Their voices are like birds, chirping and fast. He can’t understand most of the words they say, but sometimes it clicks. Grampy. Nana. Upstairs. Cookies. These he knows. They run to him and kiss him and are gone, like the . . . the . . . the flower-bugs that float and drift. Flutter-bugs. Flutter-byes. Something like that. He knows he is close with the word, and also wrong with the word.