If We Lived Here (9 page)

“I’m sad to say you missed caviar and crème fraîche at the brunch,” Annie trilled. She hoisted herself up on the arm of Emma’s chair, while the guys surrounded Nick, slapping him on the back. “Ems, I was so worried about you! Mom told me everything. Oh, this is from her.” She handed Emma a flashlight, the same one she’d used the night before. The note read,
Here’s to an easy recovery and bright, shiny things to come.

Annie continued: “My mom tried to convince us not to come. She thought Nick would want to rest. But we
had
to see you.” Emma glanced at Nick, whose eyes were at half-mast. Connor was tugging at his hospital gown; his laugh had an edge. “Ooh, I almost forgot. I brought these from the bridal suite.” Annie hopped up, opened her handbag, and started scattering rose petals across Nick’s bed.

The petals made Emma think of drops of blood, but Nick’s eyes grew wide, and he gathered them up and flung them into the air. They fluttered in a heap on the floor. “The ground’s slippery with roses,” Nick said. “Don’t anyone slip. Or we’ll sue you, Annie. Her husband can afford it, right, Em?” Eli laughed, but Emma felt mortified.

“One more thing,” Annie said, ignoring Nick and reaching into her purse again. “We pulled together some provisions.” She handed Emma a stack of plastic containers: mushroom risotto and zucchini tartlets and Brussels sprout salad, the same food Emma had watched Nick upchuck the night before. Her stomach stirred. “And here.” Annie shoved a family-sized container of Purell at Emma. “The germs must be insane here.”

“Gee, thanks.”

Annie deposited a large dollop of the hand sanitizer into her palm, then vigorously rubbed her palms before reaching down to hug Nick.

“I think it’s time for us to go, hon.” Eli took hold of his new wife’s shoulders. Emma was thankful, worried that next Annie would pull some Happy-Anniversary-slash-Get-Well-Soon gift from her Mary Poppins purse.

On their way out, Annie leaned into Emma. “Ems, you look like shit. How are you really?”

“Oh, I’m okay. We’ll be fine.” Before this weekend, Emma would’ve opened up to her best friend, confiding all the fear and loneliness and shame of the past twelve hours; but somehow, now that Annie was standing there in her just-right post-wedding sundress and cardigan, it felt different. It was like Annie had crossed over some divide, leaving a chasm between them.

“Listen, Eli got me this phone that I can use in Africa. It supposedly gets service even way the fuck out on safari, so please call me and keep me posted on everything going on. And look on the bright side: You’ve got this amazing apartment to look forward to back in New York. A dishwasher and skylights, right? Kiss, kiss!”

Emma forgot that she hadn’t told Annie they’d lost the apartment. Her friend was already halfway down the hall, shooting a disapproving look at the nurse’s
Star Wars
duds, so Emma just waved.

Back in the room, Emma perched herself beside Nick, who had nodded off again. She examined the spidery stitches that crawled their way across his brow. She ran her fingers along them, feeling out their wiry prickles like Braille, wondering what terrible word they might spell.

Nick blinked awake. “Mensa,” he said.

“What?” Emma thought he might’ve been caught in a dream conversation.

“What about Mensa? Who will feed him?” Nick’s gerbil, right. Emma wiped away the dots of sweat from her boyfriend’s skin. It was sweet, if a little disconcerting, that he seemed more concerned about his pet’s welfare than his own.

“I’ll call Carl.” Emma paused. “But, Nick—”

“Hey, Em?” She knew he’d recognized her tone, the one that indicated the need for a serious conversation.

“Yeah?”

“Let’s not have a
talk
talk, okay? At least not right now.”

Emma nodded. The truth was, as much as she knew they
should
have a
talk
talk, about Nick’s drinking and their apartment hunt and all that had happened, she wasn’t up for it either. So they sat in silence. They took in the mechanical beeps and hums like they were cicadas’ calls, both of them picturing that they were out at someone’s country house for a Labor Day picnic, soaking up the sun and sipping at cold lemonade, instead of cooped up here in the hospital, so far away from home.

Chapter
11

E
mma was supposedly on a search for a cell-phone-permitted zone, although she’d been wandering the hospital halls for twenty minutes, peeking her head into patients’ rooms and guessing at what they were in for, and still no luck. Clearly she was dreading calling the Hellis. Canceling their next-day appointments would mean offering an explanation (and an especially good one, considering some were first-timers). Emma preferred her
1, 2, 3 . . . Ivies!
clients to think she lived and breathed the business of getting their kids into the best colleges; she was not thrilled to have them picture her in her current predicament.

“Girl, what exactly are you looking for?” It was the check-in nurse from the previous night. “You’ve walked by here three times now. You’re giving me the creeps.”

“Oh, sorry. Where might I be able to make a call?”

“Cafeteria’s straight down the hall, take a right.”

Now Emma had no excuse. She would tell her clients her uncle had died. Everyone had uncles—right?—and sometimes they died. It didn’t detract from her professionalism to have an uncle die.

Emma continued putting off the work calls by first dialing Genevieve. She filled her friend in on the whole weekend saga, then added, “By the way, I can’t believe you’re thinking of applying to nursing school. Hospitals are the worst.”

“Obviously I’d prefer to play a nurse in a movie,” Gen responded, “but apparently that is not to be. But don’t you find it sort of romantic to see Nick so in need, to know he’s relying on you so much?”

“Um.” Try as she might, Emma could not adopt that benevolent perspective.

“Well, I happen to like helping people heal. It beats hanging around with the Hellis, that’s for sure.”

“You’re better than I, Gen Nightingale. Remind me again why you’re single?”

“Because I don’t want any man tying me down.”

“Right. Instead you want to change the bandages of
many
men, and spoon-feed soup to a range of male mouths.”

“Exactly.” This had been Genevieve’s stance for as long as Emma had known her—happily, steadfastly single. But as they’d edged into their late twenties and most of their friends had settled into relationships, Emma had started to suspect Gen’s happy-go-lucky independence had become a bit of an act; this made her sad. She knew it wasn’t helpful to remark upon the absurdity of her friend’s single status; the comment had simply slipped out. “Anyway,” said Gen, “I wish Nick a speedy recovery, and I can’t wait to smother you in hugs once you’re back. Stay strong, and don’t forget to fluff up his pillows occasionally.”

“Thanks, Gen. Love you.”

Emma sighed. There was no more delaying facing the Hellis. She reached Mrs. Goldstein first, and wasn’t prepared for the woman’s response: “Okay, where is the funeral—is it in the tristate area? I can put Isaac on a train in the morning to come meet you. Surely you’ll have some downtime. My condolences, of course.”

The Spencers insisted on a discount for the next session—after all, Mrs. Spencer had canceled appointments of her own to attend her son’s first appointment (despite Emma discouraging parents from participating in their children’s sessions, she couldn’t outright ban the people who were writing the checks).

When Emma reached Sophia Cole, she hadn’t even started in on her explanation when the girl broke in, “Fantastic! But don’t tell my mom, okay?”

“Sophia, I have to, so she doesn’t pay for the missed session.”

“Come on, please? I promise I won’t rat you out. If Mom knows you canceled, she’ll force me to do a mock college interview with her. She’ll make me wear a suit.”

Oy, Sophia’s mother was intense. “Fine, I’ll use the money on a gift certificate for you to Lee’s Art. But you should really draft a personal essay before our next appointment.”

“Blah, blah, okay. I’ll write about colluding with my college counselor to extort art supply money from my mother.”

“Lovely. Make sure to use descriptive detail and specific anecdotes.”

“Aye-aye, captain.”

“And watch those comma splices. Bye, Sophia.”

Emma shook her head, then looked up the next client to call: Mrs. York, who pulled out her
1, 2, 3 . . . Ivies!
contract and read aloud the twenty-four-hour cancellation policy. They settled on a phone session—which is how Emma found herself back in the cafeteria the next morning, sitting among the families of the sick and injured, drilling Dylan York on rhetorical devices. At least the boy was hardworking.

“The hospital says the drunk can’t leave until he’s sobered up,” Emma said.

“Metonymy,” Dylan answered, “since the hospital didn’t actually say it. Next?”

“The more beer you drink, the more fun you’ll have.”

“Easy: sophistry.”

“People who run drunk through the woods in the middle of the night are dumb. The boy runs drunk through the woods in the middle of the night, so the boy is dumb.”

“Syllogism. What is this, some kind of public service announcement? Did my mom tell you she caught me with that six-pack?”

“Sorry, no, just a coincidence. But you’ve really studied, nice work!”

“Thanks, my girlfriend’s been testing me. Our plan is to both go to Columbia.”

“That’s great. How long have you been dating?”

“Eleven weeks.” Emma almost laughed—the long-term plans of teenage lovers were ridiculous—but then she remembered Connor’s cruel laughter mocking her own relationship, and kept quiet.

“Well, it sounds like she’s a keeper. Next time we’ll practice math.”

“I’m sorry about your uncle, by the way.”

“Oh, thanks.” Emma wanted to own up to her lie, but refrained, fearing that the boy’s mother would find out. “See you next week, Dylan. And go easy on the beer.”

Emma hadn’t even bothered trying to get out of her appointment with the Griffins. Mr. Griffin had written her three angry e-mails about his son’s score on the SAT practice test—100 points lower than the last one. Emma had improvised something about how bolstering one’s auditory skills could ultimately enhance one’s reading comprehension, and much to her surprise, Mr. Griffin had bought it and agreed to the phone session.

“Hey, Lucas, are you there?” All Emma heard over the line was heavy breathing.

“You’ve gotta help me.” The boy’s whisper was scratchy. “My dad grounded me for my test scores. No matter what I do, I can’t break 2,100.”

Emma knew this family well—a couple of years ago she’d tutored Lucas’s older brother, who’d scored a perfect 2,400 on his SATs, fives on all of his Advanced Placement exams, and an early admissions ticket to Harvard, all of which he would’ve achieved with or without Emma’s help. Lucas was not the student that his brother was, although in Emma’s opinion he was the kinder and more interesting of the two. Unfortunately his father didn’t seem to see past the test scores. And Lucas’s mother, whom Emma imagined to be a compassionate, gentle woman (an impression based solely on wishful thinking), was out of the picture, living somewhere in South America.

Emma had an idea. “Okay, Lucas, let’s try something different.” Channeling her best yoga teacher voice, she instructed the boy to focus on his breath, to tune out his surroundings, and to pay attention only to his inhales and exhales.

She could hear Lucas’s breathing slow down. Emma did the exercise, too, focusing her attention on the air passing in and out of her lungs. It was relaxing. She found she was actually able to let go of her surroundings—the hospital, Nick’s injury, being 200-plus miles from home.

“What the hell is going on here?” The gruff voice accosted Emma’s eardrums, and her stomach seized. It was Mr. Griffin. He must have been tapping the line. The man’s rage ramped up: “I’m paying your company $120 an hour for you to practice
breathing
with my son? Is this some kind of joke?”

“Dad, it’s helpful.” Lucas sounded far away.

“That’s it. No wonder Lucas’s scores are plummeting. I guess he’s too busy concentrating on the challenging task of inhaling oxygen to study. If you ask me, Ms. Feit, your methodology has really slipped. I wouldn’t have thought
1, 2, 3 . . . Ivies!
would fall for this hippie crap, but clearly I was wrong. We’re done here. I expect a refund for half of this session.”
Click.
Fired.

Emma sat very still, her vision bleary with tears. She was startled by a hand on her back, and then a stranger’s reassurance: “Hang in there.” She felt silly, then. Someone had thought she was misty-eyed over a sick friend or relative, and here she was letting a Helli get to her. These parents had preposterous expectations, and Emma became a punching bag for all their own disappointments and anxieties. Usually she remembered these things; usually she could laugh off their crazy behavior.

But now, Emma questioned herself. This Helli-shaming made her wonder, why had simply breathing along with Lucas just now felt like one of her most satisfying experiences on the job? She’d always suspected yoga was a bit of a fraud. She figured at some point the practice must’ve hired a fantastic P.R. firm to convince the masses that it was reasonable to choke up twenty bucks for an hour of guided breathing and stretching, plus another $100 for the right pants to do it in. But now Emma sort of got it. Life had gotten so stressful that people actually had to carve out time in their day to chill out. When she was generous with herself, Emma liked to think of her job as opening doors for kids. Now she wondered if all she was doing was piling on more pressure—raising the bar for everyone so that more students would have to seek out similar services to be successful, and then graduate to further stresses and successes . . . and the cycle would go on and on.

Emma flashed on herself at age seventeen, the spring of her senior year when all those fat college acceptance packets had arrived in the mail. When her brother, Max, heard she’d been admitted to Yale, where he was enrolled as a junior, he’d sent her a sweatshirt stamped with the university mascot, a bulldog that seemed to be scowling at Emma. She’d been so sure of herself when she chose Brown, the school renowned for its lack of requirements and a student body that actually cared about learning. She’d wanted to forge her own path to success, whatever that meant, outside of the pressure cooker that nearly everyone else had accepted as the norm.

So where and when had she gone wrong? Emma was suddenly back to Lily Bart, near the end of
The House of Mirth
when the protagonist had fallen so far. Despite her beauty and her wardrobe and all her potential, a series of small missteps left Miss Bart alone and penniless, abandoned by her friends and shamed by society. Emma reveled in her own self-pity. Today was the day after Labor Day, the unofficial start of getting back to business, and here Emma was forcing down a sad sandwich of dry turkey and wilted lettuce, wearing dirty clothes (at least Annie had brought her her suitcase, so she could change out of her muddy maid-of-honor dress), and waiting for the bleeding to abate in her boyfriend’s brain. She felt alone. Annie and Eli were off to Africa, Genevieve was back in New York, Nick was sleeping off his head trauma, her parents were an ocean away, and Mr. Griffin had cursed her out for being bad at her job. To top it all off, in a few weeks, she and Nick would become homeless.

Emma tore open a carton of chocolate milk, which she’d bought in an attempt to comfort herself. Her sip tasted sour, and she sprayed it out across her tray. She checked the expiration date: August 15. Of course her milk would be bad, she thought, pouting. She heard laughter, and turned around to see a table of kids, most bald and all skeletally thin, playing cards. Emma chastised herself for her self-absorption. She imagined Gen telling her to buck up, so she stood up, tossed out the milk, and headed back to her boyfriend.

“Great news,” Nick said, greeting her with a kiss. “I’m good to go.”