“I can’t go in there.”
I think he’s kidding. We’re standing right in front of the door of the restaurant—people are rushing around us to get inside where the windows are steamed with heat. But when he steps away from the door, disengages from my arm, and looks up and down the street, his eyes are wild. He is terrified. I feel like I’m with a stranger.
“If you make me go in there, I’ll die.”
“I’m not going to make you do anything.” The street telescopes, goes quiet. He looks like a cornered animal. I stand perfectly still, trying not to make any sudden moves.
He tells me he’s serious. He’s not kidding. That he can’t take it anymore.
I have no idea what he’s talking about, what’s happening, what the “it” is. I wonder for a split second if I should call someone, someone who deals with this kind of thing, but I don’t know who deals with this kind of thing because I don’t know what this thing is.
He takes a few deep breaths, then shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I hate Sundays.” He is pacing now, back and forth, then in circles around me.
I blink, trying to piece things together. I know about his father’s drinking, the volatility of his home life during and after his parents’ divorce, the hypervigilance and anxiety that came from that kind of uncertain and traumatic childhood—and I’m convinced that our relationship will be enough to save him. That together we’ll get past his childhood, that with someone to take care of him and look out for him, he will survive and thrive. I’m sure of it. My naïveté is staggering in retrospect, but at the time, I believe my plan will work.
Back then it is easy to comfort him, to distract him from himself, to make things better. When he is calm I take his arm again and lead him away from the restaurant and back up University Place toward my building—into the lobby, past the doorman, and up in the small creaky elevator, into my apartment. After an hour in bed, he is better. Back to normal. He gets up and gets dressed, opens the refrigerator, then closes it. “Where should we go? I’m starving!” he says. Like nothing happened.
But something did happen. Because now I’m the one who can’t move. I’d felt so good after the movie, but taking care of Gary took everything out of me. It’s like we’ve traded places. Glenn was right when she said that he’s too complicated—maybe I am making a mistake, maybe saving him means risking getting pulled under myself. But it already feels like it’s too late. I already feel like I’m in too deep. He already needs me. How can I leave?
Helping the drowning is noble work, the most noble journey, but it can cost you almost everything. I think of Teddy, our one true joy. How can I say I would have chosen differently when Gary has given me this beautiful boy, this good life? How can I be anything other than blocked when I feel so conflicted and confused?
Leaving Early
It’s only nine o’clock, but it feels like a million hours go by as I wait for Gary to come back up from dinner. I haven’t been high since college, and while I didn’t like the feeling then, I realize I actually hate it now. Whatever was in that joint is nothing like the harmless low-tech pot we used to smoke. I’m wired and exhausted, anxious and paralyzed, almost like I’m tripping. I have no idea when Andy left the room and what we talked about before she did. I’m trying to get my hands to work on my phone—trying to text the People Puppets to make sure everything is okay back home—that Teddy has left his room at least once and that Phoebe has worn the dog for at least an hour—but while I’m fumbling I can’t shake the feeling that I’ve lost track of time. All I sense is that at some point this evening I had a desperate urge to draw.
The next thing I know, Gary is back. He’s standing over me, asking me if I’m okay.
“Maybe it’s all the crayons and markers we used today, but I’ve been dying to get creative.” I’m talking either superfast or superslow. Am I actually talking or are the words just in my head?
Gary stares at me, then sniffs. “It smells like pot and Sharpies in here,” I think he says. He looks down and then so do I: there’s my open tote bag on the floor, most of its contents spilled out onto the rug. Fragments of memory are coming back to me: I remember digging around in that bag for the handful of pens I’d grabbed before leaving the house yesterday morning. I smirk at the possibility that I had a delayed reaction: after producing nothing in the seminar all day, I may have had a burst of creativity tonight.
I’m groggy now, and headachy, but vaguely aware that something isn’t right. Gary is moving in slow motion around the room, his mouth open in horror. He’s pointing at the photos on the walls, and at some of the framed pictures on the bookshelves. His lips are moving and words are probably coming out but I don’t hear anything until finally he grabs me by the shoulders and yells:
“Jesus, Judy. What did you do?”
What did I do? Apparently, in his absence, and under the influence of whatever kind of cannabis was in Gregory’s desk drawer, I took my supply of Sharpie pens and marked up Sari Epstein’s happy-couple photos: big Dalí-mustaches on the glass over some of the faces; devil horns on others. And then there’s the reprint of the New York Times Style section piece on Creativity Gurus where I drew arrows pointing to Sari’s head and then wrote, in big block letters, THE FOREHEAD. Next to that are several caption bubbles filled with I HAVE A “CREATIVE” IDEA: GET SOME BANGS! and OR: HOW ABOUT A SIDE-PART?
More of my memory is coming back to me: I now remember making those mustache flourishes and writing those caption bubbles; the glee that my old book signing and illustrating pens were no longer going to waste and were finally being repurposed—punishing someone who isn’t even a writer because she had a framed print of a famous Norman Mailer quotation on her bookshelf: WRITER’S BLOCK IS ONLY A FAILURE OF THE EGO.
A failure of the ego. Her ego is so ridiculously huge that it’s eclipsed the fact that her only true creative talent is marketing creativity retreats. Which didn’t even work for me.
The more I blink awake, the more the rage comes back to me. Gary is pointing at a big poster-size blowup of the two of them, Sari and Gregory, from the back, running down a beach holding hands. I’ve scrawled THIS IS SO UNFAIR on the glass at the top of the photo, with a flurry of at least ten angry arrows pointing at them. He sighs, rolls his eyes. “Jesus, Judy. Please don’t tell me you’re jealous of them.”
“I am, but it’s not what you think.” I’m jealous of their ease. I’m jealous of his mental health, of her physical health. “Why do you have to struggle every single day and he doesn’t? Why does Sari get to live when Glenn’s going to die?” It’s the first time I’ve said this out loud, and it only makes me feel worse, not better. “Why do some people get to be healthy and others don’t? It’s not fair.” The words come out of me in a low growl, and then in the deep howl of a wounded animal. “It’s not fair.”
Gary exhales and his shoulders slump. The day has gutted him, too, but somehow he is still standing. I cry until I can’t anymore.
“I want to go home,” I whisper, wiping my nose. But I know that’s not possible. There’s still another day of the seminar, and the minute Sari sees what I’ve done, she’ll post about it on social media. I’m paralyzed with shame and fear.