Cures for Heartbreak (14 page)

“That's funny.” A siren screamed by. “When we were little we used to beg our parents to move to the country. It seemed so exciting. . . . I wanted to be like Laura Ingalls Wilder or Anne of Green Gables. I mean, the only places I've ever been are Maplewood, upstate, and the Poconos . . . in the Poconos my sister and I used to freak out over seeing all those stars.”

I looked up: nothing. You could never see them in the city.

“Virginia,” I said. “I've been to Virginia too.” I winced, remembering how preoccupied I'd been with my own impending death then, and how I'd been certain of Sasha's. I gazed at my boots.

“Virginia?”

“My dad and I were there for this thing over the summer called Healthy Heart Week. I was his companion—it was pre-Sylvia. We met some interesting southerners—you might see them at the wedding. If you hear anyone use the word
hineybumper
or the phrase
bet your bippy,
that's them.” He was easy to talk to, for some reason—he seemed to listen. I didn't feel so nervous being near him now, alone in the dark.

“What's a bippy?”

“Synonym for
hineybumper.
Which is a synonym for
butt.
”

“Good to know.” His smile looked sly this time, like we were sharing a secret.

“They're inviting a number of oddities to the wedding. Not you guys, I mean—people like Morty Grossman. Wasn't he in the ICU with you?”

“No. I don't know Morty.”

“Right. That was another time. Anyway, my dad met him in the hospital too. I can't believe he's still alive.”

Too late, I realized that this was an insulting thing to say. “I'm sorry,” I said lamely.

“Why are you sorry?”

“I didn't mean—” I stared at the lit windows of the
brownstones across the street and changed the subject. “I crossed off a couple people he was going to invite—oh my God. This crazy social worker—”

“Uh-oh. I hope you're not talking about this one woman they sent me. She was supposed to be the best on the staff, but she was the
worst.
” He shook his head and scratched the sleeve of his black sweater.

“Did she have a huge hineybumper?”

He grinned. “She did.”

“Gina Petrollo?”

“That's right, that's her name! God, she was nuts.” He laughed.

“When my dad was about to have bypass surgery, Miss Petrollo told me to go shopping. Not that it was entirely bad advice, in retrospect, but at the time it didn't seem exactly professional.”

“She told me I needed a hobby. She suggested whittling. You know, carving sticks into trinkets?” he asked.

“Lovely.”

“I actually sort of like whittling. Still . . .”

“Still.”

He dug his hands into the pockets of his jeans and stared up at the sky. We kept gazing above us for a long time, as if waiting for a star to miraculously show itself. We didn't speak; I wasn't sure if I should say something, if I should ask about his health or about philosophy.

Something about the word
philosophy
made my heart quicken. We had no philosophy classes at my high school—nothing even close. I thought of the class descriptions I'd read in Alex's college course catalog when it came in the mail—I'd nearly salivated at the thickness of the catalog; I'd read it page by page until she forced me to give it back to her. I'd circled some of the classes, dreaming about all the things you could study:
Feminist Philosophy, Knowledge and Power, Women in American Society
;
there was even a class called
Cinematic Desire.
It thrilled me that in college you could finally choose what you wanted to learn. The course catalog had seemed like an emblem of the future—there was something to look forward to.

“Philosophy,” I said finally. “I might like to study that too.”

“This Eastern one I've been reading about, Taoism?” he said, still gazing upward. “They believe that nature is the force of good, and whatever happens in nature always works out right.”

“Huh.” I'd heard of Taoism—my father had a copy of
The Tao of Pooh,
though I didn't think he'd ever read it. “Maybe that's why I like the country. Maybe I should go trek in Nepal.”

“Do you like hiking?”

“I love it.” What was I saying? The only place I'd hiked to was Bloomingdale's Shoes on 2.

“I'm going next weekend—I've been taking Metro-North upstate and exploring the trails and mountains there.”

“By yourself?”

“Usually I go by myself. Actually, always. You're welcome to come. If you want,” he said.

I wanted. “Sure. It sounds fun.” What was happening here, exactly?

He stared at my boots with the three-inch heels. “You have hiking boots, right? You need them—it might be icy in some places still.”

“Of course I've got hiking boots.” I hoped Alex's old ones would fit me with some thick socks.

“We can meet at Grand Central next Saturday, then. At the info booth? There's a train that leaves at eleven—we can catch the sunset before we come back. Meet at ten-thirty to get our tickets?”

“Okay—sounds fun,” I said. “Great.”

We were silent for a while, until Gigi's voice shrilled from the stairs. “Ya guys fall off? Come on—dessert's ready!”

“We'll be down in a sec,” Sasha called. He paused. “No offense, but you're really different than I thought you were. When I met you at NYU I thought you were kind of . . .” He shrugged. “Obnoxious. I mean—you're not at all. I'm just surprised.”

Obnoxious?

“Don't look so horrified. I didn't know you or anything.”

“Oh, well. Jeez.”
Obnoxious?

“I didn't mean that in a bad way.”

I felt a hot wave of shame, remembering our awkward conversation in the solarium almost a year ago. “Yeah. Maybe I was kind of . . . I guess . . . I was sort of, well . . . freaked out by everything, I guess.”

“'Cause of your dad, you mean?”

I shrugged. “Everything.”

“NYU?”

NYU—he said it like the university, not the hospital. As if we went to college there together.

“I remember you were talking to me this one time and I was reading this embarrassing book and I didn't want you to see it,” I said.

“Why?”

“It was a romance novel. I don't usually read that stuff—I never do—but I didn't want you to see. I thought you'd think I was stupid.”

“A romance novel.” He smiled.

I felt like he could see straight into my organs in the dark. I regretted telling him.

“I never read them anymore,” I lied.

Gigi called from the stairs again. “We're going to eat dessert without you!”

“We're coming!” Sasha yelled. He gently touched my elbow. “We better head down. Saturday. Don't forget,” he said.

Throughout dessert and the whole ride home I felt like I was carrying a secret. We didn't mention anything about hiking together after we rejoined the grown-ups, and I didn't
tell my dad or Sylvia on the drive home. I wanted to keep it to myself.

“I can't believe she let him go to Nepal. That's
crazy,
” Sylvia said as we sped along the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway. “He could've caught an infectious disease! His immunity must be very low. If he caught anything, he'd be dead. It's ridiculous, a third-world country. They don't even have medical care there. So
reckless.
”

“He was very lucky,” my dad said.

“But he was fine,” I told them. “He was fine in Nepal. He didn't catch any infectious diseases. He's fine.”

She ignored me. “She's obviously very permissive. Serving the kids wine.”

“My mom let us taste wine and beer. It was never a big deal,” I said. “It didn't lead me to start freebasing in the school hallways or anything.”

“It's just not appropriate,” Sylvia said to my father, not to me.

I sighed, put on my Walkman, and listened to music for the rest of the drive home. I lay down in the backseat and tuned them out, dreaming about Sasha, replaying our conversation on the roof.

On Monday after school, Kelsey and I went shopping for hiking boots at Paragon Sports. Alex had taken both her pairs to Cornell with her.

“I need to make them look used,” I said, picking up a pair of clunky, hideous gray boots. “A hundred dollars? Jesus.” I
put them back down. “He thinks I'm a hiker. Do you think if I bat a pair against the cement and rub in some dirt they'll look used?”

“Please don't turn into a crazy hiking-boot crunchy person,” she said.

“Don't worry. I won't.”

“What is it that you like about this guy, anyway?”

“I don't know. He's nice and . . . there's something about him that's so different from other guys. Like he skipped the whole artificial
I'm a boy, I'm cool, I'm angry
thing . . . he's just himself. He's really gentle—his voice, everything. He just seems so . . . nice.”

She looked skeptical. “The cancer thing doesn't bother you? I mean, what if he dies?” I'd told her how in Virginia I'd convinced myself that he was dead.

“He looks really healthy and fine. I don't think he's going to keel over on our date, if that's what you're worried about.”

“Do you know CPR?”

“No. Should I?”

“Can't hurt.”

I pictured his face, his black hair falling in his eyes. “His cancer brings him down to my rung,” I said. “It's like an equalizer—he would never be interested in the likes of me if he was healthy.”

“You're crazy.” She shook her head.

“No, really—he's that cute,” I said. “He has this smile . . .
with dimples . . . and cheekbones . . .”

She picked up a pair of brown leather boots. “Hiking,” she said. “
Why?
What's the point? Can't you just drive up the mountain?”

“I don't think there's a road.” I shrugged. “It's supposed to be fun.” But I was a little nervous. Shit. What if I had to scale rock faces with my bare hands?

“What are you going to wear?”

“Khaki pants and my black crewneck sweater.”

“I think you should just get these.” She picked up a pair of maroon sneakers. “They're cute, and they'll work just as well as hiking boots. Hiking boots are fugly. How can you pay so much for something so fugly?”

I examined the maroon sneakers.

“They're seventy dollars cheaper,” she said.

That sealed the deal. I bought the sneakers and a pair of wool socks.

“You'd better be careful. I hate the woods. There are axe murderers and stuff out there,” she said as we walked to the subway.

“I know. I'll be careful. Hey—can you be my alibi? I'm not telling my dad I'm going. He'd tell Sylvia and she'd say something annoying and I just don't want to get into it.”

“Sure. Of course. Just don't let the cancer guy die on you or anything.”

Sasha was waiting at the info booth at Grand Central on Saturday. He grinned when he saw me and studied my face.

“You look nice. Are you wearing makeup?”

“Makeup? No! Of course not.” I laughed nervously and vowed to be careful when rummaging through my knapsack so he wouldn't see the powder, blush, lipstick, and mascara inside. Makeup did not fit with the Hiking Girl persona I was aspiring to, the type I was sure he liked. I regretted that I didn't know how to whittle.

“I got our tickets already,” he said. “I got here sort of early—the F came fast.” He was holding a white paper bag and reached inside it. “Coffee?”

“Please.” He handed me a cup.

“Blueberry or corn muffin?”

“Blueberry. Thanks.”

I reached for my wallet to pay him back, but he said, “Don't worry about it.”

“But the tickets—”

“It's on me.”

“Thank you,” I said, feeling thrilled by his gentlemanliness.

“I packed a bag with sandwiches at home but I forgot to bring it, so we should get lunches for later. We can eat them on top of the mountain,” he said. My stomach lurched at the thought of the mountain—we were actually hiking up a mountain. I'd sort of blocked that fact out of my mind.

“There's a deli over there.” He pointed, and we went to the tiny counter and bought sandwiches, chips, fruit, and granola bars to eat later.

We stuffed the food into our knapsacks and made our way to the track. Our train was already in the station, its doors open. It was nearly empty. We chose a row and had it all to ourselves.

“How's the wedding planning?” he asked as we settled into our seats, and finished our coffee and muffins.

I rolled my eyes. “Have you heard of Zingy-Dell figurines? Sylvia's obsessed with them. She registered for the entire collection. They're taking over our house.”

“Zingy whats?”

“Picture little animals and children clutching signs like ‘Smiles' and ‘Just Sunshine.' ‘Just Sunshine' is a special limited edition, in fact.”

“Sounds beautiful.”

“The word my sister uses is
batshit.
I think Sylvia's about as different from my mom was as is humanly possible.”

He unzipped his blue fleece jacket. “My mom doesn't date much. She used to. Once when I was a kid I took a cat turd out of the litter box and put it in one poor guy's sneaker.”

“You didn't.”

“The thing was, he wore it for two hours before he said, ‘I think there's something in my shoe. . . .'” We both laughed.

A few minutes later I asked, “Where's your father?”

“He died in a car accident the year after I was born.”

“That sucks,” I said.

“Yup.”

The conductor's voice boomed from the PA system, rattling off an unintelligible list of stations. Several more people boarded the train. A minute later it lurched, then grumbled into the bowels of Grand Central.