7
WE'RE SITTING INSIDE a Subway sandwich store, and I'm watching in fascination as Callie fills her apparently hollow leg with a footlong meatball sandwich. I've always wondered how she does it. She can pack away more food than a linebacker, and yet she never gains a pound. I smile, thinking maybe it's those five-mile jogs she does, every morning, seven days a week. She licks her fingers loudly, smacking her lips with such enthusiasm that two older ladies shoot us a look of disapproval. Satisfied, she sighs and settles back, sipping on her Mountain Dew through a straw. It strikes me that this, right here, is the essence of Callie. She does not just watch life go by, she devours it. She gulps it down without chewing, and always goes back for more. I smile to myself, and she frowns, shaking a finger at me.
"You know, I brought you to lunch because I wanted to tell you how pissed off I am at you, honey-love. No returning my calls, not even an e-mail. Not acceptable, Smoky. I don't care how fucked up you are."
"I know, Callie. And I'm sorry. I mean it--I'm really, truly sorry."
She stares at me for a moment, an intense stare. I've seen her give it to a criminal or two, and I feel I deserve it. It passes and she smiles one of those radiant smiles, waving her hand. "Apology accepted. Now for the real question: How are you? I mean, really. And don't lie to me."
I stare off for a moment, stare at my sandwich. Look at her. "Until today? Bad. Real bad. I have nightmares, every night. I've been depressed, and it's only been getting worse, not better."
"Been thinking about killing yourself, haven't you?"
I feel the same jolt, at a lower frequency, that I felt in Dr. Hillstead's office. Here, I somehow feel more ashamed. Callie and I have always been close, and whether spoken or expressed, there is a love there. But it's been a love based on strength, not weeping on each other's shoulders. I am afraid that this love would lessen or disappear if Callie had to pity me. But I answer.
"I thought about it, yes."
She nods and then is silent, looking off to something or somewhere I can't see. I feel a prick of deja vu; she looks as Dr. Hillstead looked, trying to decide which fork in the road to take. "Smoky, there's nothing weak about that, honey-love. Weakness would be actually pulling the trigger. Crying, having nightmares, being depressed, thinking about killing yourself, those things don't make you weak. They just mean you hurt. And anyone can hurt, even Superman."
I stare at her and am at a loss for words. One hundred percent lost, I can't think of a thing to say. This is just not what Callie does, and it has caught me by surprise. She gives me a soft smile.
"You know, you have to beat it, Smoky. Not just for you. For me." She sips her drink. "You and I, we're alike. We've always been golden. Things have always gone our way. We're good at what we do--hell, we've always been able to be good at anything we put our minds to, you know?"
I nod, still speechless.
"I'm going to tell you something, honey-love, something philosophical. Note it on your calendar, because I'm not one to get deep in public." She puts down her drink. "A lot of people paint that same, tired old picture: We start out innocent and bright-eyed, and then we become jaded. Nothing's ever quite as good again, blah, blah, blah. I've always thought that was a pile of poop. Not all lives start out innocent and Norman Rockwell, now, do they? Ask any child in Watts. I've always thought it's not so much that we learn that life is shit. It's that we learn that life can hurt. Does that make sense?"
"Yes." I'm mesmerized.
"Most people get hurt early. You and I--we've been lucky. Very, very lucky. We see the hurt, doing what we do, but it's never been us. Not really. Look at you--you found the love of your life, had a beautiful child, and you were an ass-kicking FBI agent, a woman no less, all on the rise like a bright, shooting star. And me? I haven't done so bad either." She shakes her head. "I've managed not to get too full of myself, but the truth is, I've always had my pick of the guys, and I was lucky enough to have a brain to go with the bod. And I'm good at what I do at the Bureau. Real good."
"You are," I agree.
"But, see, that's just it, honey-love. You and I have never really experienced tragedy. We're alike in that way. Then all of sudden, the bullets stopped bouncing off of you." She shakes her head. "The moment that happened, I couldn't be fearless, not anymore. I was afraid, really afraid, for the first time in my life. Ever. And I've been afraid ever since. Because you are better than me, Smoky. You always have been. And if it can happen to you, it can damn sure happen to me." She sits back, puts her hands flat on the table. "End of speech."
I have known Callie for some time. I have always known that she has depths uncharted. The mystery of those depths, glimpsed but not revealed, has always been a part of her charm for me, her strength. Now the curtain has parted for a moment. It's like the first time someone lets you see them naked. It is the essence of trust, and I am touched in a way that makes me weak at the knees. I reach over and grab her hand.
"I'll do my best, Callie. That's all I can promise. But I do promise that."
She squeezes my hand back, and then pulls it away. The curtain has been closed. "Well, hurry it up, will you, please? I enjoy being arrogant and untouchable, and I blame you for the lack thereof."
I smile and look at my friend. Dr. Hillstead had told me earlier that I was strong. But for me, it is Callie who has always been my private hero when it comes to strength. My crass-talking patron saint of irreverence. I shake my head. "I'll be back in a minute," I say. "I have to use the restroom."
"Don't forget to put the lid down," she says.
I see it when I exit the bathroom, and what I see tells me to stop. Callie isn't aware of me yet. Her attention is focused on something in her hand. I step to the side, so that the doorway blocks her view of me a little, and stare.
Callie looks sad. Not just sad--bereft.
I have seen Callie be scornful, gentle, angry, vengeful, witty--any number of things. I have never seen her sad. Not like this. And I know, somehow, that it has nothing to do with me.
Whatever she holds in her hand is bringing my hero to something just short of grief, and I am shocked.
I am also certain that this is a private thing. Callie will not want to know that I have seen her this way. She may only have one face to show the world, but she chooses what parts of it to show. She hasn't chosen to show me this, whatever this is. I go back into the bathroom. To my surprise, one of the older women is there, washing her hands, and she glances at me in the mirror. I look back, biting a thumbnail as I think. Come to a decision.
"Ma'am," I say, "can you please do me a favor?"
"What's that, dear?" she asks, not missing a beat.
"I have a friend outside . . ."
"The rude one with the awful eating habits?"
Gulp.
"Yes, ma'am."
"What about her?"
I hesitate. "She . . . I think she's having a private moment right now. Because I'm in here, and she's alone. . . . I--"
"You don't want to surprise her in that moment, is that it?"
Her instant and perfect understanding makes me pause. I stare at her. Stereotypes, I think again. So useless. I had seen an uptight, judgmental crone. Now I see kind eyes, wisdom, and a well-honed appreciation of the ridiculous. "Yes, ma'am," I say, quiet. "She--well . . . she'll always be crass, but she's got the biggest heart I know."
The woman's eyes soften and her smile is beautiful. "Many great people have eaten with their hands, dear. Leave it to me. Wait thirty seconds and then come out."
"Thank you." I mean it; she knows it.
She leaves the bathroom without another word. I wait for a little more than thirty seconds and follow. I peek around the corner and now my eyebrows raise. The woman is standing by our table, shaking a finger at Callie. I walk toward them.