No more fear. Now she’s in a box, buried next to my grandfather, whose headstone reads, Abraham Rosinsky, 1912-1990. Summary of their lives: they married in Warsaw in 1937, survived the camps, met up again in 1946, emigrated to America in 1948, had two kids, my mother and my uncle, had seven grandkids and are survived by six of them.
It comes down to that, a summary.
Is she with my grandfather now? I don’t believe in an afterlife, but what do I know? Did my bubbe believe in one? Maybe she did. Maybe she wasn’t afraid to die. I wish I had asked her.
How do you ask someone who is about to die if she’s afraid?
If I had really wanted to know, I would have asked.
I glance around at the clusters of gravestones. Two rows over, a tombstone says Nathan Mandel, 1975-1992. Poor Nathan Mandel. How did he die at seventeen? What happened to ill-fated Nathan Mandel? Leukemia? Car accident? Drug overdose?
The sun is shining directly on my head, burning my scalp. The bright weather makes the cemetery seem almost obscene. My mother grips my hand tighter.
My bubbe’s death is sad, but I wouldn’t call it a tragedy. She had a full life. Nathan Mandel, that was a tragedy.
But why is longevity important when we’re all going to die, anyway? Is the purpose of life merely life? What about courage and integrity? What about loving and being loved?
I feel a rush of panic. Life is short, and I don’t want to waste it. I want to make sure that every day is filled with things that make me and others happy.
Layla. Why haven’t I told her how I felt about her?
When I called the dorm earlier today, wanting to hear her voice, I got her machine: “Hi! This is Layla. I’m in New York for the weekend. You can call me on my cell at 212-555-6782 or leave a message. And happy Valentine’s Day!”
She was probably in New York for another interview. Good for her! I smiled at her chirpiness, then hung up before saying anything. I didn’t know what to say. I debated calling her in New York, but decided against it. What would I say to her? Standing here in the hot sunlight, looking at the coffin and the gravestones, I know what I want to tell her, but it’s the sort of thing that should be said in person, not over the phone.
I want to tell her I love her.
russ gets nailed
1:00 p.m.
“Russ, sweetie, time to wake up. It’s already afternoon. Happy President’s Day.”
I blink my eyes open and pat Kimmy’s hair.
My eyes shoot open. Oh, man. Sharon’s hair. Sharon’s hair, not Kimmy’s.
My heart speeds up. Better hope I don’t confuse their names out loud. I open my mouth to say something but then close it, not trusting my own voice.
Having Sharon here is confusing the hell out of me. On the one hand, I love seeing her. How could I not? I love those ears. On the other hand, having her in such close vicinity to Kimmy fills me with dread. Don’t like when worlds collide.
She sits up and stretches. “What do you want to do today?”
“Relax?” Let my heart rate go back to normal, for starters. I need to get out of the Zoo. Out of the bed I’ve slept in with Kimmy. It’s freaking me out. “Let’s go shower, then take a walk and get some lunch.”
We get out of bed and Sharon starts straightening the linen. She reaches between the comforter and wall to pull out the pillow that fell over. “Russ?”
“Yeah?” I say while searching for a clean towel.
“What’s this?”
She’s eyeing me suspiciously and holding the DVD jacket of Sex and the City, season two.
Shit. Kimmy must have left it here.
Now why would I be watching season two of Sex and the City? As far as Sharon knows I’ve never even seen season one. There’s no superhero in Sex and the City.
Her eyes are squinting in mistrust.
Shit. Shit. Shit. The only reason I would I have Sex and the City here is because I was watching it with a chick.
Or…
“I borrowed it from a female friend to use as porn,” I blurt. Heart pounding. What the hell did I just say? That’s just gross. Did she buy it?
She continues staring at me, then shakes her head. “That’s so pathetic.”
“Yeah, well, it’s been a long time. And I need to release myself sometimes.”
She laughs, tiptoes over to me and kisses me on the lips. “You should call me next time. We can have-” she lets her hand roam over the seat of my pants “-phone sex.”
How did I manage to turn a potential disaster into phone sex, eh? I am a superhero. “Shower and then lunch?”
“Can we shower together?”
She loves showering together. I don’t. I get cold while I’m waiting for her to rinse out the conditioner.
“I only have one pair of flip-flops,” I say.
She swats me lightly with my one clean towel, grabs the flip-flops and heads to the bathroom.
Five minutes later there’s a knock on the door.
Kimmy. Oh, man. This is not a good plan.
“Hi,” she says. “Your girlfriend was preoccupied so I thought I’d say hi.”
“Hi. All good?” I scan down the hallway to make sure Sharon isn’t on her way back. I don’t want to engage her in a conversation. I don’t want Sharon to even see her here. She’ll be able to tell if she sees us together. I know she will.
“I’m okay.” She tries to make eye contact but I’m not letting her. I can’t flirt with her when Sharon’s here. Just can’t. I feel bad for Sharon. Hell, I feel bad for Kimmy, too.
She touches my arm. Is she crazy? I shake her off.
“This isn’t a good time,” I say, lowering my voice. “Can we talk later?”
She steps back like I slapped her. Her eyes fill with tears, and she turns and starts walking away. Oh, man.
“Wait, Kimmy, don’t be mad,” I say to the back of her head. I hate what I’m doing. To them both.
She shrugs without turning around.
“Can’t we talk about this tomorrow?”
She doesn’t answer and continues walking.
I’m about to go after her, when Sharon appears at the other end of the hall, in her towel.
Shit. Did she hear?
Kimmy raises her arm and gives me the finger.
Oh, man. Did Sharon see that?
I guess not. Sharon waves at me, and continues her journey down the hall. “My feet just don’t feel clean when I wear flip-flops,” she says, laughing.
I turn off the shower water and try to turn off my brain, as well. That was so close. I can’t believe how near I came to blowing everything.
I wrap my towel around my waist and peer out of the stall. Not in the mood for another Kimmy run-in. I’ll deal with it tomorrow.
I hurry back to my room and unlock the door. My stomach grumbles. “Are you starving, too?” I ask Sharon. Sharon is sitting on the bed, wearing just a bra and underwear, staring at something in her hand.
She’s staring at a condom wrapper.
Oh, man. Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
Sharon and I don’t use condoms.
An icy chill travels down my body.
She looks up at me, her face pale, her lips quivering. “My hair gel rolled under the bed. And look what I found.”
“Sharon, I…”
She tries to throw it at me, but it falls pathetically to the floor. Her hand starts to shake. “Are you cheating on me?” she squeaks.
Shit. Shit, shit, shit.
I open my mouth, close it, then say, “Yes.”
I lean against the door for balance, then slide down to the floor. “I’m sorry…I…” My voice trails off. Shit, shit, shit. “I’ll stop.”
“Who is she?” she asks, her voice rising.
“Kimmy.”
She flings herself off the bed, picks up the wrapper and waves it in the air. “Kimmy, the one who called you New Year’s Eve?”