That’s what Portland looks like this morning: like something in danger of dissolving.
I keep thinking about what Alex always says: There are more of us than you think. I sneak a glance at everyone who goes by, thinking maybe I’ll be able to read some secret sign on their faces, some mark of resistance, but everyone looks the same as always: harried, hurried, annoyed, zoned out.
When I get home, Carol’s in the kitchen washing dishes. I try to scoot past her, but she calls out to me. I pause with one foot on the stairs. She comes into the hallway, wiping her hands on a dish towel.
“How was Hana’s?” she asks. She flicks her eyes all over my face, searchingly, as though checking for signs of something. I try to will back another bout of paranoia. She couldn’t possibly know where I’ve been.
“It was fine,” I say, shrugging, trying to sound casual. “Didn’t get a lot of sleep, though.”
“Mmm.” Carol keeps looking at me intensely. “What did you girls do together?”
She never asks about Hana’s house, and hasn’t for years. Something’s wrong, I think.
“You know, the usual. Watched some TV. Hana gets, like, seven channels.” I can’t tell if my voice sounds weird and high-pitched, or if I’m just imagining it.
Carol looks away, twisting her mouth up like she’s accidentally gotten a mouthful of sour milk. I can tell she’s trying to work out a way to say something unpleasant; she gets her sour-milk face whenever she has to give out bad news. She knows about Alex, she knows, she knows. The walls press closer and the heat is stifling.
Then, to my surprise, she curls her mouth into a smile, reaches out, and places a hand on my arm. “You know, Lena . . . it won’t be like this for very much longer.”
I’ve successfully avoided thinking about the procedure for twenty-four hours, but now that awful, looming number pops back into my head, throwing a shadow over everything. Seventeen days.
“I know,” I squeeze out. Now my voice definitely sounds weird.
Carol nods, and keeps the strange half smile plastered to her face. “I know it’s hard to believe, but you won’t miss her once it’s over.”
“I know.” Like there’s a dying frog caught in my throat.
Carol keeps nodding at me really vigorously. It looks as though her head is connected to a yo-yo. I get the feeling she wants to say something more, something that will reassure me, but she obviously can’t think of anything because we just stand there, frozen like that, for almost a minute.
Finally I say, “I’m going upstairs. Shower.” It takes all my willpower just to get out the words. Seventeen days keeps tearing through my mind, like an alarm.
Carol seems relieved that I’ve broken the silence. “Okay,” she says. “Okay.”
I start up the stairs two at a time. I can’t wait to lock myself in the bathroom. Even though it must be more than eighty degrees in the house, I want to stand under a stream of beating hot water, melt myself into vapor.
“Oh, Lena.” Carol calls out to me almost as an afterthought. I turn around and she’s not looking at me. She’s inspecting the fraying border of one of her dish towels. “You should put on something nice. A dress—or those pretty white slacks you got last year. And do your hair. Don’t just leave it to air-dry.”
“Why?” I don’t like the way she won’t look at me, especially since her mouth is going all screwy again.
“I invited Brian Scharff to come over today,” she says casually, as though it’s an everyday, normal thing.
“Brian Scharff?” I repeat dumbly. The name feels strange in my mouth, and brings with it the taste of metal.
Carol snaps her head up and looks at me. “Not alone,” she says quickly. “Of course not alone. His mother will be coming with him. And I’ll be here too, obviously. Besides, Brian had his procedure last month.” As though that’s what’s bothering me.
“He’s coming here? Today?” I have to reach out and place one hand on the wall. Somehow I’ve managed to completely forget about Brian Scharff, that neat printed name on a page.
Carol must think I’m nervous about meeting him, because she smiles at me. “Don’t worry, Lena. You’ll be fine. We’ll do most of the talking. I just thought you two should meet, since . . .” She doesn’t finish her sentence. She doesn’t have to.
Since we’re paired. Since we’ll be married. Since I’ll share my bed with him, and wake up every day of my life next to him, and have to let him put his hands on me, and have to sit across from him at dinner eating canned asparagus and listening to him rattle on about plumbing or carpentry or whatever it is he’s going to get assigned to do.
“No!” I burst out.
Carol looks startled. She’s not used to hearing that word, certainly not from me. “What do you mean, no?”
I lick my lips. I know refusing her is dangerous, and I know that it’s wrong. But I can’t meet Brian Scharff. I won’t. I won’t sit there and pretend to like him, or listen to Carol talk about where we’ll live in a few years, while Alex is out there somewhere—waiting for me to meet up with him, or tapping his fingers against his desk while he listens to music, or breathing, or doing anything at all. “I mean . . .” I struggle for an excuse. “I mean—I mean, couldn’t we do it some other time? I don’t really feel good.” This, at least, is true.
Carol frowns at me. “It’s an hour, Lena. If you can manage to sleep over at Hana’s house, you can manage that.”
“But—but—” I ball one fist up, squeezing my fingernails into my palm until pain starts blooming there, which gives me something to focus on. “But I want it to be a surprise.”
Carol’s voice takes on an edge. “There’s nothing surprising about this, Lena. This is the order of things. This is your life. He is your pair. You will meet him, and you will like him, and that’s that. Now go upstairs and get in the shower. They’ll be coming at one o’clock.”
One. Alex gets off work at noon today; I was supposed to meet him. We were going to have a picnic at 37 Brooks, like we always do whenever he comes off the morning shift, and enjoy the whole afternoon together. “But—” I start to protest, not even sure what else I can say.
“No buts.” Carol crosses her arms and glares at me fiercely. “Upstairs.”
I don’t know how I make it up the stairs; I’m so angry I can barely see. Jenny’s standing on the landing, chewing gum, dressed in one of Rachel’s old bathing suits. It’s too big for her. “What’s wrong with you?” she says, as I push past her.
I don’t answer. I make a beeline for the bathroom and turn the water on as high as it can go. Carol hates it when we waste water, and normally I make my showers as quick as I can, but today I don’t care. I sit on the toilet and stuff my fingers in my mouth, biting down to keep from screaming. This is all my fault. I’ve been ignoring the date of the procedure, and I’ve avoided even thinking Brian Scharff’s name. And Carol is absolutely right: This is my life, and the order of things. There’s no changing it. I take a deep breath and tell myself to stop being such a baby. Everyone has to grow up sometime; my time is on September 3.