Giggling, we half carry each other to his room. He unlocks his door and falls face forward onto his bed. I climb in beside him. He’s still singing. He knows I’m lying next to him and he hasn’t told me to leave, so I snuggle into his arms. He smells like warm wine. He fingers a lock of my hair and closes his eyes.
Now’s my chance. I can take my clothes off and let his hands wander, or I can start kissing his neck. And then we’ll be exactly where we were in September. With Jamie being in love with me. Instead of with Layla.
I close my eyes and pull him close. He doesn’t pull away. I inch my mouth to his.
He’s no longer singing, he’s humming, but it’s the same song.
I fell in love with you…
Where’s that from? I know that song.
Right. Eric Clapton.
Layla.
I sit up with a start. What am I doing? My head pounds, my mouth feels drier than the Arizona desert, and my stomach feels queasy. What the hell is wrong with me? Layla’s helped me through everything this year and I try to screw her just because my self-esteem’s been shredded to pieces? Why am I such a horrible person? Jamie doesn’t love me. He loves Layla. And she loves him, no matter what she says.
I can’t always be the weak link in the band of sisterhood. I disentangle myself from his arms and back out of the room.
He hangs his head over the bed. “I think I’m going to be sick.”
I rush to grab his garbage pail and place it directly in his potential target zone. Then I sit back down on the edge of his bed. “You know what? So am I.”
jamie’s mom knows best
Tuesday, April 20, 10:00 a.m.
White noise blares through my alarm clock.
Happy birthday, Dara.
I slam my hand against the alarm. Head. Hurts. Room. Smells. I open one eye and throw off my covers. I’m fully clothed yet nicely tucked into my bed. It smells like ass in here. Oy. That must be because of the garbage pail of puke beside my bed.
What happened last night anyway? The last thing I remember clearly is drinking too much sake. But somehow I must have found my way back here. And set my alarm. Or maybe Kimmy did it for me. Who knew she had the mother gene? I’m not getting up today. I shall mourn Dara’s birthday in bed. Nothing matters, anyway. My head is broken and my heart is broken. Why bother getting up?
I turn the alarm off. No thanks.
The phone rings.
“Hello?”
“Jamie?”
“Mom, hi.”
“You weren’t still sleeping, were you?”
“Sleeping? What’s that?”
“Are you getting enough sleep over there? Have you tried those earplugs I sent?”
“Yes, Mom. Thanks, Mom.”
Pause. “I’m calling to thank you for the flowers.”
Flowers? Oh, right, flowers. I forgot I ordered the flowers. Wait a second. She never calls to thank me. “You are?”
“Don’t sound so surprised, Jamie.”
“Well, Mom, I’ve been sending them for twenty years and you’ve never called to thank me before. Not that I need a thank you. I’m just wondering why this morning I get a phone call.”
“You’re right,” she says, and I hear her eating on the other end. “I’m seeing things differently, since my mother died. I wanted to tell the people I appreciate how much I appreciate them before it’s too late.”
“Well, then I appreciate you telling me that you appreciate me.”
“I appreciate you, I appreciate you. I always have, since the day you were born. Even though I didn’t want to have you.”
“Um…thanks?”
She laughs. Laughter on Dara’s birthday? “That didn’t come out right.”
I can’t believe we’re having this conversation. “So why did you decide to have me?”
“Your father thought it would be good for me. And he was right.” She pauses, and I think I hear her sniffle. “Honey, just know that pain becomes manageable. I know you’re hurting, but it’ll pass. You have to take solace in the good things in your life. Like your exciting new job.”
Wait a second. “How do you know I’ve been depressed?”
“Shush. A mother knows everything.”
“Amanda spilled the beans,” I say.
“I’m all-knowing. So you’re going to try to keep your chin up, Jamie? For me?”
“Nothing like Jewish-mother guilt to kick-start me from bed.”
“Do I hear you smiling?”
I smile. “Yes, Mom.”
“And one more thing. How about getting your niece into one of those movies you’re producing? Don’t you think she could be the new Shirley Temple?”
I agree. In this world, anything’s possible.
I hang up the phone and jump out of bed. I need to study. I have exams to ace.
russ has a fleeting regret
Wednesday, April 28, 10:40 a.m.
I put down my pencil and raise my hand. Third exam over. I stretch my legs under the desk. Wait for the proctor to come take my paper. Insert my student card into my front pocket.
Kimmy is sitting three rows ahead, scribbling furiously. It’s weird to think that after Friday I might never see her again. Nick told me she’s planning on going back to Arizona. She’s not taking the job at O’Donnel, either. I called last week to tell them I changed my mind because of family obligations, and they weren’t too thrilled. Oh, well.
Kimmy runs her fingers through her hair, and I feel a pang in my chest. Part of me still wants her, and probably always will. Maybe our paths will cross someday. Maybe we’ll both be visiting New York and will be crossing Fifth Avenue at the same time and our eyes will lock. If I expect Sharon to forgive me, or at least let me be a part of our baby’s life, I can’t have any contact with Kimmy. It’s the right thing to do. I care about her, but I have to be responsible.
I’m going to have to grovel. I asked Sharon if she wanted to get married and she told me to go to hell. But you never know, eh?
“All done?” the proctor asks, taking my exam.
“Yes.”
“Good luck.”
“Thanks,” I say. I’ll need it.
layla’s calling
Thursday, April 29, 12:00 a.m.
I’m feeling a little ambivalent as I pack my belongings into my bag and roll myself out into the library elevator for the last time this year. On the one hand, I’m happy to be finished exams; on the other hand, I love the adrenaline rush they give me.
The elevator stops at the third floor. Kimmy walks in, blurry eyed, like she forgot to close her eyes underwater. She tenses when she sees me. We haven’t spoken since our argument.
“How are you?” she asks.
“Good. You? Ready for tomorrow?”
“Um, yeah.”
I flash back to images of her staring at the professor clue-lessly. “Are you sure?”
She hesitates again. “I’ll be fine.”
I know she’s lying, and suddenly I don’t want to be mad at her anymore. “Do you need some help?”
She shakes her head. “I’ll be fine.”
“Define Arbitrage.”
“It’s…um…” She shakes her head. “I’m fucked, huh? I’m totally lost.”
I giggle. “You’re not. Come over and we’ll review.”
“It’s already midnight. You like to get a good night’s sleep before an exam.”
“I’m plenty rested. We’re reviewing,” I tell her, feeling charged. The idea of helping her invigorates me the way nothing else has all week. “You get the snacks, I’ll make the tea, and we’ll meet in my room in five, okay?”
“I don’t deserve it,” she says.
What kind of talk is that? “Yes, you do.”