Anybody Out There?
Page 26
“Dogly? Thank you.”
As soon as I was sure they were really gone and wouldn’t be leaping back in the door to check on me, I did what I’d been dying to do for hours—I rang Aidan’s cell phone. It went straight to voice mail, but even so, it was such a relief to hear his voice that my stomach turned to water.
“Aidan,” I said. “Baby, I’m back in New York. Back in our apartment, so you know where to find me. I hope you’re okay. I love you.”
Then I wrote him an e-mail.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: I’m back
Dear Aidan,
It feels funny writing to you like this. I don’t think I’ve ever written you a proper letter before. Hundreds and hundreds of little e-mails, yes, to say who was bringing dinner home and what time would we meet and that sort of thing, but never like this.
I’m back in our apartment but maybe you already know that. Rachel and Jacqui came over—Jacqui got a present of two gold teeth from a client—and we had pizzas from Andretti’s. They forgot the salad, like always, but gave us an extra Dr
Pepper.
Please be okay, please don’t be frightened, please come and see me or get in touch somehow, I love you. Anna
I read back over what I’d written. Was it light enough? I didn’t want him to know how worried I was, because whatever he was going through was bound to be difficult enough without me adding to it.
Decisively I hit send with my index finger and a red-hot shock shot from my regrowing nail up my arm. Christ, I’d have to go easy on the grand-gesture-style typing with the two fingers with banjaxed nails. The pain was enough to make me queasy and momentarily it distracted me from the sudden wave of feeling that enveloped me. Something like rage or sadness at not being able to protect Aidan, but it was so fleeting it was gone before I could grasp it.
In the bedroom, tucked into Aidan’s side of the bed, was Dogly, the toy dog he’d had since he was a baby. He had long swingy ears, syrupy eyes, and an eager, adoring expression, and his caramel-colored fur was so thick it was more like a sheep’s fleece. Not in the first flush of youth—Aidan was thirty-five, after all—but not bad for his age. “He had some work done,” Aidan said once. “Eyes lifted, collagen injection to plump out his tail, a little liposuction on his ears.”
“Well, Dogly,” I said. “This is a bit of a disaster.”
It was time for my last batch of pills of the day and for once I was grateful for the mood-altering stuff—the antidepressants, painkillers, and sleeping tablets. Coming back to New York was harder than I had expected and I needed all the help I could get.
But even filled with enough mellowing stuff to knock out an elephant, I didn’t want to get into bed. Then, like an electric shock, I noticed his gray sweatshirt on our bedroom chair, as if he’d just pulled it off and flung it there. Cautiously, I picked it up and sniffed it and enough of his smell still lingered to make me dizzy. I buried my face in it and the intensity of his presence and absence made me choke.
It didn’t have the special lovely smell of his neck, or of his groin, where everything was stronger, sweeter, and more feral, but it was enough to get me into bed. I closed my eyes and the pills pulled me into an undertow of sleep, but in that halfway state which precedes unconsciousness, one of those horrible ragged chinks opened up and I caught a glimpse of the enormity of what had happened. I was back in New York, he wasn’t here, and I was alone.
17
I slept heavily and dreamlessly, probably thanks to the pills. I rose through layers of consciousness, pausing at each one until I was ready to move on—like a scuba-diving ascent: preventing the emotional bends of a sudden shocking burst through the surface of sleep—so that I was quite peaceful by the time I opened my eyes. He wasn’t with me and I understood that.
The first thing I did was switch on the computer, checking my e-mail, hoping for a reply from him. The indicator said there were five messages and I stopped breathing, my heart pounding with desperate hope. The first was an offer for tickets to a Justin Timberlake concert. Then one from Leon saying he’d heard I was back and to call him, one from Claire saying she was thinking of me, one offering to enhance my penis size, and, finally, a blocked virus. But from Aidan, nada.
Disconsolate, I trooped off to shower and was shocked to find that I could barely wet my body, never mind my hair. Have you ever tried to have a shower without getting one arm wet? For the past eight or nine weeks everything had been done for me, so much so that I hadn’t noticed how incapacitated I was. I had another of those nasty chinks of clarity: I was way out of my depth here, on every level.
I reached for my shower gel and a memory hit me like a blow; it was No Rough Stuff, the new Candy Grrrl exfoliator. That last day, all those weeks ago, I’d been test-driving it. I’d given myself a good scrub with the lime- and pepper-scented grains, and when I got out of the shower, I’d asked Aidan, “Do I smell nice?” Obediently he’d sniffed me. “Great. Although you smelled even nicer ten minutes ago.”
“But ten minutes ago I only smelled like me.”
“Exactly.”
I had to hold tight on to the sink until the feeling passed, clenching with my one good hand until my knuckles went as bone white as the enamel.
Time to get dressed. My already low heart dipped a little lower and Dogly watched sympathetically. It was the fecking kookiness, hanger after hanger of it, plus rack after rack of colorful shoes and bags—and, worst of all, the hats. I was facing into my thirty-third birthday, far too old for this. What I needed was a promotion, because the farther up the feeding scale you went, the more you were allowed to wear suits.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Kooky girl goes back to work
Today’s outfit—black suede boots, pink fishnets, black crepe-de-chine vintage dress with white polka dots, pink three-quarter-length coat (also vintage), and butterfly bag. Silly hat, I hear you ask—oh, but of course: a black beret at an angle. All in all, a little subdued, but I should get away with it today.
I would really like to hear from you.
Your girl, Anna
He always got a kick out of my work uniform. The irony was that he tried to subvert his conservative suits with funky ties and socks—Warhol prints, pink roses, cartoon superheros—and I was desperate to be somber and tailored.
As soon as I was sure they were really gone and wouldn’t be leaping back in the door to check on me, I did what I’d been dying to do for hours—I rang Aidan’s cell phone. It went straight to voice mail, but even so, it was such a relief to hear his voice that my stomach turned to water.
“Aidan,” I said. “Baby, I’m back in New York. Back in our apartment, so you know where to find me. I hope you’re okay. I love you.”
Then I wrote him an e-mail.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: I’m back
Dear Aidan,
It feels funny writing to you like this. I don’t think I’ve ever written you a proper letter before. Hundreds and hundreds of little e-mails, yes, to say who was bringing dinner home and what time would we meet and that sort of thing, but never like this.
I’m back in our apartment but maybe you already know that. Rachel and Jacqui came over—Jacqui got a present of two gold teeth from a client—and we had pizzas from Andretti’s. They forgot the salad, like always, but gave us an extra Dr
Pepper.
Please be okay, please don’t be frightened, please come and see me or get in touch somehow, I love you. Anna
I read back over what I’d written. Was it light enough? I didn’t want him to know how worried I was, because whatever he was going through was bound to be difficult enough without me adding to it.
Decisively I hit send with my index finger and a red-hot shock shot from my regrowing nail up my arm. Christ, I’d have to go easy on the grand-gesture-style typing with the two fingers with banjaxed nails. The pain was enough to make me queasy and momentarily it distracted me from the sudden wave of feeling that enveloped me. Something like rage or sadness at not being able to protect Aidan, but it was so fleeting it was gone before I could grasp it.
In the bedroom, tucked into Aidan’s side of the bed, was Dogly, the toy dog he’d had since he was a baby. He had long swingy ears, syrupy eyes, and an eager, adoring expression, and his caramel-colored fur was so thick it was more like a sheep’s fleece. Not in the first flush of youth—Aidan was thirty-five, after all—but not bad for his age. “He had some work done,” Aidan said once. “Eyes lifted, collagen injection to plump out his tail, a little liposuction on his ears.”
“Well, Dogly,” I said. “This is a bit of a disaster.”
It was time for my last batch of pills of the day and for once I was grateful for the mood-altering stuff—the antidepressants, painkillers, and sleeping tablets. Coming back to New York was harder than I had expected and I needed all the help I could get.
But even filled with enough mellowing stuff to knock out an elephant, I didn’t want to get into bed. Then, like an electric shock, I noticed his gray sweatshirt on our bedroom chair, as if he’d just pulled it off and flung it there. Cautiously, I picked it up and sniffed it and enough of his smell still lingered to make me dizzy. I buried my face in it and the intensity of his presence and absence made me choke.
It didn’t have the special lovely smell of his neck, or of his groin, where everything was stronger, sweeter, and more feral, but it was enough to get me into bed. I closed my eyes and the pills pulled me into an undertow of sleep, but in that halfway state which precedes unconsciousness, one of those horrible ragged chinks opened up and I caught a glimpse of the enormity of what had happened. I was back in New York, he wasn’t here, and I was alone.
17
I slept heavily and dreamlessly, probably thanks to the pills. I rose through layers of consciousness, pausing at each one until I was ready to move on—like a scuba-diving ascent: preventing the emotional bends of a sudden shocking burst through the surface of sleep—so that I was quite peaceful by the time I opened my eyes. He wasn’t with me and I understood that.
The first thing I did was switch on the computer, checking my e-mail, hoping for a reply from him. The indicator said there were five messages and I stopped breathing, my heart pounding with desperate hope. The first was an offer for tickets to a Justin Timberlake concert. Then one from Leon saying he’d heard I was back and to call him, one from Claire saying she was thinking of me, one offering to enhance my penis size, and, finally, a blocked virus. But from Aidan, nada.
Disconsolate, I trooped off to shower and was shocked to find that I could barely wet my body, never mind my hair. Have you ever tried to have a shower without getting one arm wet? For the past eight or nine weeks everything had been done for me, so much so that I hadn’t noticed how incapacitated I was. I had another of those nasty chinks of clarity: I was way out of my depth here, on every level.
I reached for my shower gel and a memory hit me like a blow; it was No Rough Stuff, the new Candy Grrrl exfoliator. That last day, all those weeks ago, I’d been test-driving it. I’d given myself a good scrub with the lime- and pepper-scented grains, and when I got out of the shower, I’d asked Aidan, “Do I smell nice?” Obediently he’d sniffed me. “Great. Although you smelled even nicer ten minutes ago.”
“But ten minutes ago I only smelled like me.”
“Exactly.”
I had to hold tight on to the sink until the feeling passed, clenching with my one good hand until my knuckles went as bone white as the enamel.
Time to get dressed. My already low heart dipped a little lower and Dogly watched sympathetically. It was the fecking kookiness, hanger after hanger of it, plus rack after rack of colorful shoes and bags—and, worst of all, the hats. I was facing into my thirty-third birthday, far too old for this. What I needed was a promotion, because the farther up the feeding scale you went, the more you were allowed to wear suits.
To: [email protected]
From: [email protected]
Subject: Kooky girl goes back to work
Today’s outfit—black suede boots, pink fishnets, black crepe-de-chine vintage dress with white polka dots, pink three-quarter-length coat (also vintage), and butterfly bag. Silly hat, I hear you ask—oh, but of course: a black beret at an angle. All in all, a little subdued, but I should get away with it today.
I would really like to hear from you.
Your girl, Anna
He always got a kick out of my work uniform. The irony was that he tried to subvert his conservative suits with funky ties and socks—Warhol prints, pink roses, cartoon superheros—and I was desperate to be somber and tailored.
