Aw. “Thank you.”
As I find a vase to put the roses in, I hear him discussing the hockey game with Mack. Seems like he knows just what to say to everyone.
By the time we leave, both Mack and Ronnie are swooning. When Brad’s not looking, Ronnie mouths, “Wow.” I believe they are impressed.
In the elevator, I wonder if we’re going to walk to the restaurant or flag a cab. But a black sedan outside the door answers the question. Is that his car? Did he hire it for the night? I’m feeling mildly light-headed. I’m unclear if it’s from the champagne or the roses/suit/car combination.
He takes me to La Grenouille, and does everything right. He knows his wines, listens while I talk, asks all kinds of questions. After dinner, he drops a platinum American Express card on the table, and asks, “Would you like to go to Plush?”
Plush is the new VIP hot spot on Forty-second Street. This is turning into the best Valentine’s weekend ever.
jamie’s valentine’s day curse
Saturday, February 14, 9:00 a.m.
This is officially the worst Valentine’s Day ever.
I lift the phone in the ICU waiting room and wait for the nurse to answer.
“ICU?” the nurse says.
“Hi, Donna, it’s Jamie. Can I come in?”
“Of course. Your mom is here.”
“I know. Thanks.” I rub the antibacterial cream into my hands and open the door. I wave to the nurses.
My mother is sitting on the wooden chair in my bubbe’s room, staring vacantly out the window. Her eyes are heavily shadowed, as though she hasn’t slept in months.
I sit on the metal stool beside her. “How is she?”
“The same,” she answers, her voice shaking. “Terrible.”
My grandmother is lying on the bed, eyes closed, too thin, too pale. Her heart is too weak. Her almost transparent skin sags around the thin bones of her face. There is nothing the doctors can do.
“What did the nurse say?” I ask softly.
“Any time now.”
I’m not shocked. You always expect your grandparents to die. My other grandparents are already gone. But they’d always been old. But not my bubbe. I thought she’d be around forever.
Okay, I can deal with her leaving, but I can’t deal with it if she can’t. I want her to call me over and tell me it’s okay. That she’s okay about dying. That she’s looking forward to the next step. Looking forward to being with Zadie. That she’s not scared. I can deal with no longer seeing her anymore, but I can’t deal with her fear. After going through the Holocaust, and burying her husband, I can’t bear to have her go through any more pain. How horribly unfair.
I’m exhausted. I’ve been making jokes for days, trying to keep my bubbe going, trying to make her laugh. Yesterday, I even juggled bananas for her. She tried to smile.
I hate being here.
I hand my mother a heart-shaped chocolate. She doesn’t smile.
Valentine’s Day has always been disastrous. At ten, Maddy Weiner, the tiny brunette who sat in front of me in the fourth grade, ripped my homemade Valentine’s Day card in quarters and tossed it like confetti around the schoolyard. I went to the nurse and told her I had to go home, because my heart was broken.
In high school, I sent a dozen red roses and a singing telegram to my girlfriend of two weeks, right in the middle of biology. She broke up with me at lunch.
And then there was the bike accident. Which happened to be on February 14.
All in all, never a successful holiday for me. But I’ve never felt more alone.
I wonder if Layla misses me.
I take my mother’s hand and squeeze. And we wait.
kimmy is pissed
11:50 p.m.
I’m lying on Layla’s bed, slightly drunk from a bottle of Chardonnay I’d bought in a futile attempt to cheer myself up, flipping through channels, trying to find something on TV that isn’t about stupid Valentine’s Day.
Irresistible, my ass. That lipstick is going right in the garbage.
Everyone else in the world has something to do tonight. Even Nick and Lauren have dates. With two undergrad roommates, oddly. And I have nothing. I have to pee, but I’m afraid to run into Russ and his precious Sharon. I crept out of the building at ten a.m. and spent the day at the library, and so far I’ve managed to avoid them. I’d planned on showing up in places I’d thought they’d be, so that Russ could compare us in the flesh (and thus find her lacking), but I couldn’t bear to see them together, laughing and kissing, arms intertwined.
It’s now almost midnight and I can’t even see what’s going on in the common room downstairs, because what if Russ and Sharon walk by and see me sprawled pathetically on the infested couch, stuffing my face with chips?
I flip the channel again and see Russ and Sharon in the entranceway.
Oh. My. God.
I still can’t believe this average albeit attractive woman is the Sharon. When I met her in the entrance the other day I was shocked. This is my rival? This is the other woman?
I should have told her right then and there who I was.
Okay, fine, technically I’m the other woman, but nevertheless, she’s not what I expected. I thought she’d be tall and blond and waiflike, but she she’s kind of average. Like Joey from Dawson’s Creek but with less angst. She has shoulder-length brown hair, big brown eyes and a small slightly turned-up nose.
He opens the door for her, slowly kissing the spot on her neck between her chin and scarf.
I don’t want to see this. I don’t want to see them all loving and happy.
I keep watching.
She takes off her gloves and runs her right hand through his hair.
My eyes fill with tears, angry tears, sad tears, the screen blurs, and the next thing I know they’re gone.
How could he kiss her like that? How can he act like he loves her but then sleep with me? What is wrong with him?
Why do I let him get away with it?
Right now they’re climbing the stairs. I should meet them at the top. I should tell him to go fuck himself. I should tell her what he’s been doing-screwing me. I should shake my fist and scream and make her realize the truth, make them both feel as shitty as I do.
Maybe I will.
I smooth my hair and slide out of Layla’s room.
The hallway is empty and I stomp toward the staircase. I open the stairway door, listening to their voices coming from the second floor.
“I think I had too much wine,” she says, giggling.
“You only had two glasses,” he answers, and from where I am, I can see him patting her on the head.
“I’m a cheap date,” she says. Then she adds, “I had a terrific time tonight.”
I clench my hands into fists and anchor them to my hips.
Sharon stumbles over a step and giggles again. “I’d better not get sick tonight,” she says, still laughing.
“I’ll take care of you,” he answers.
They’re about to turn the corner in the stairwell, where they’ll see me. Any second now.
I think I’m going to be sick.
I can’t do this.
I step out of the stairwell, back into the hallway, unlock my door and, just as I hear them approaching, I close my door, tears streaming down my face.
jamie thinks about life
Monday, February 16, 10:00 a.m.
One shovel of earth. Two.
The rabbi is saying the mourners’ prayer, and my mother is tightly holding onto my father.
My bubbe died at eleven-forty Saturday night. I was downstairs getting my mother a hot chocolate. Bubbe was sleeping. I came back to the room and found chaos-my mother was wailing, my sisters and niece had shown up and they were also crying, and the doctor was trying to calm everyone down. I was drowning in both panic and relief. Relief that she is no longer afraid.