Just Yesterday (2 page)

Even now, I can’t think about Grace without hurting. Even today, my memories and emotions become instantly confused as I think back to the time we’d met. But I can’t — won’t — think of Grace just now. It is dangerous. That much I know. And this trip is about Connie, I remind myself. Not about Grace.

There’s no such thing as a direct flight between Los Angeles and Champaign, Illinois. Naturally, I miss my connecting flight and end up arriving in Champaign well after dinner, much later than planned. I pick up a rental car and drive the roundŹabout way to my hotel, purposely avoiding my old high school and the neighborhood that I’d grown up in. I had visited enough of my past via memories already today.

Skipping dinner, I flip on the local television news, unpack my suitcase, and flop down on the bed, exhausted. My last waking thought is one of wonder that all of the news anchors, including the weatherŹman, have been on that same station over fifteen years ago. I marvel sleepily, noting that they’ve barely aged at all.

I wake the next morning with a single-mindedness to get to the hospital as soon as possible. Without hesitating, I dial the phone number that Grace has given me and am somewhat relieved to get an answering machine. I explain that I’ll be leaving the following afternoon and tell her to leave me a message if she can squeeze me into her schedule somehow during the next twenty-four hours. But I’m not counting on seeing her.

I hate hospitals, and being in Champaign’s Saint John’s does nothing to change my mind. The smell of disinfectant hangs in the air as I find the intensive care unit and brace myself for what I am about to see.

I never could have prepared myself for the scene before me. Tubes and machines and monitors and blood. My throat begins constricting, and I force myself to take slow, even breaths. Jesus. My stomach threatens to lurch as my vision blurs, the room becoming nothing more than blobs of color. White. Stainless steel gray. The brown-orange color of dried blood.

A white sheet is pulled tight over her torso, tucked under her armpits. Her right arm and leg are encased in plaster. Needles and tubes and tape sprinkle and cover every inch of her left arm. My eyes follow one tube and settle on the steady drip, drip of liquid in the bag above her head. The only sound is the steady beep that accompanies the green line that jumps on the heart monitor nearly every second.

I cannot recognize the swollen features of her face. But I know it’s her by the white-blond strands of hair that lie against the pillow. My eyes try to avoid the matted dried blood that covers most of her scalp.

“Elizabeth? Is that you?” The voice that reaches me from my left is immediately followed by a shadow that enters my peripheral vision.

Vaguely, my mind registers the voice. But I am slow to turn and respond. “Mrs. Kaplan.” Connie’s mother is wrapping her arms around me, her small frame pressing against mine as she squeezes tightly.

When she finally releases me, she stands back and blinks up at me, the red of her eyes in sharp contrast to the pasty white of her skin. She appears so much older than I remember her. My eyes trace the deep lines that etch her cheeks and note that the skin that stretches across her bones seems almost translucent. I take a deep breath, the drastic change in her appearance unnerving me even more. Then we are both talking at once, awkwardly throwing out one line after another.

“I’m so sorry, Mrs. Kaplan.”

“Thank you for coming, Elizabeth.”

“I’m so sorry.” I must have repeated the same line a half a dozen times.

“It was so sweet of you to come all this way.”

I feel a prickling sensation along my spine and sense rather than see another pair of eyes on me. Almost against my will, I lift my head and find myself frozen by the dark eyes that practically hold me in my place.

She sits stiffly in a chair at the foot of Connie’s bed, slender arms crossed, dark skin smooth across high cheekbones. Her black hair is smoothed down and slicked back. A splash of red lipstick is the only bright color that adorns her features, as she is dressed completely in shades of brown.

My mouth grows dry as she lifts her chin, almost regally, and speaks without getting up.

“I’m Wendy,” she announces simply, as if there is really nothing else of importance to say.

I nod, remembering Charlene’s comments about Connie’s girlfriend from earlier yesterday. Stepping farther into the room to shake her hand, I think better of it when I see her arms remain firmly crossed against her chest.

“Liz,” I say finally, introducing myself.

“Elizabeth Grey?” Her tone doesn’t change, and I’m not certain whether she is asking a question or making a statement. When I nod, she responds again, her voice unchanging. “I know who you are.”

For several moments I wonder how it is that she has heard of me. Was it from Charlene or Connie’s mother during the past twenty-four hours? Had Connie mentioned me in passing while enumerating the lovers in her past? Had I been the source of some heated argument between her and Connie?

If she senses my internal debate, she refuses to give any clues. We continue to stare until I can take it no longer, and I refocus on Connie’s mother.

“How is she doing?” I ask stupidly. It doesn’t take a surgeon to see that Connie’s condition is critical.

Mrs. Kaplan’s only reply is in the tight, thin line of her lips and the eyes that begin to fill. Her eyes shift to her daughter, and I follow their gaze.

I am much closer to the bed now and have to breathe deeply to steady myself. I still can’t recognize my ex-lover.

My eyes catch the glint of stainless steel around her head and I squint, a sick curiosity getting the best of me as my mind begins to comprehend what I am seeing. A large, square patch of skin is exposed on the top of Connie’s head where it has obviously been shaved. What appear to be two metal screws are implanted in her skull. Secured to the metal screws is a kind of braided wire, which is threaded through some sort of contraption behind Connie’s head. I follow the wire and feel my stomach drop as I realize that it is attached to two large weights that hang just behind and below the head of the bed.

“She broke her neck.” Her mother’s voice is weak. The flash of pain that racks my insides is so complete that I cannot identify what hurts the most. My head is exploding, my heart aching, my stomach dropping. I wasn’t prepared for any of this.

“You know the rules, Mrs. Kaplan,” a voice booms behind me and I jump, turning to see the stern face beneath a nurse’s cap eyeing each of us separately. “Only two visitors at a time. Family only.”

“This is Connie’s sister, Elizabeth.” Mrs. Kaplan lifts her chin defiantly.

“Uh-huh.” The nurse’s tone makes it clear that she doesn’t believe a word of it. “Just like she’s her sister, too.” She nods in Wendy’s direction and I almost smile. Wendy is clearly as dark African American as Connie is pale-white Caucasian.

Connie’s sister, Charlene, appears from behind the nurse and reaches me in two short steps, wrapping her arms around me in a quick hug. She is a younger, shorter image of Connie. Her long blond hair isn’t as fine or light as Connie’s, but Charlene is far more attractive in the traditional sense.

“That’s it.” The nurse draws herself up indignantly. “Two of you. Out. Now.”

We all look at each other until I catch the pleading in Charlene’s blue eyes and I remember our conversation from the day before.

“Come on, Mom.” I tuck my arm under Mrs. Kaplan’s elbow and try what I hope is my most charming smile. “Let’s go get a cup of coffee and catch up.”

She hesitates, and I give her a small nudge. “You won’t be gone long, I promise. I want to spend some time with Charlene while I’m here, too.”

Her eyes move from Charlene to the closed eyes of her other daughter as she lies on the bed. She is so fragile. So indecisive.

“It’s okay, Mom,” Charlene says softly. “Go with Liz. Connie will be okay while you’re gone.”

I watch the emotions flicker across the older woman’s face and feel my heart constrict again. The fear on her face is plain. She is afraid that Connie will die and that she won’t be there when it happens.

She stares up at me and I flash a reassuring smile. I’m rewarded with a curt nod, and then we are ushering each other from the room.

I remain at the hospital for most of the day, alternately walking the hallways with Charlene and her mother, then standing motionless at Connie’s bedside. As the day progresses, I am able to look at her for longer periods of time.

She remains unrecognizable to me. Everything except the blond hair and the left hand that lies at her side. My eyes trace each finger and I am grateful for the familiar blunt fingertips that somehow validate my being there in a room of near strangers.

It is those fingers that I recognize. How many times had I lovingly watched those fingers hover over a photograph as it came to life on paper? Connie had swished the chemicals around in the tray, eyeing the image until it reached perfection. Then those fingers would dip down and sweep up the print, only to submerge it quickly in yet another solution.

Silently, I stand over Connie. Apologizing for all those things unsaid. For all of the mistakes we have made. Foolishly, I will her eyes to open, frustration rising as she resolutely lies still. The fear of her death is suddenly very real to me, our mortality something I’d rarely given thought to before this morning.

Just before I leave to return to my hotel, I speak to her silently. I say good-bye, even while I don’t want to believe that’s what I’m doing. But I know, somehow, that I might never see the startling green of her eyes again. It doesn’t matter that we haven’t spoken in four years. I’d always had the option to see her, to talk with her. But with death were no such options.

I return to my hotel in an emotional stupor. Part of me wants to curl up on the bed and pretend that none of it has happened. Part of me begins to obsess about Connie, and I begin replaying in my mind many of the moments we have shared. I find myself trying to remember why we broke up, but cannot.

My mind drifts to Joanna, and panic seizes me. What would I ever do if this happened to Joanna? She is my entire life.

Suddenly I miss her. Badly. Not just the woman that I’d left back in Los Angeles. I miss the way we used to be. The closeness we used to share. Five years ago I would never have made this trip alone. Yesterday she’d barely blinked when I left for the airport.

I resolve to do whatever it takes to find that closeness again. We have to find a way to make things work.

Without another thought, I reach for the phone and dial our number.

Eight hours of sleep did nothing to lighten my mood. Joanna had been sympathetic but distant on the phone the night before. When I told her that I thought maybe we had made a mistake, that maybe we should give it another try, she sidestepped my concerns.

“Honey, we’ve talked about this for two years. You’re just emotional because of Connie.”

“I know I’m emotional. That’s the point. Maybe I’m just realizing what’s important in life.” I hated feeling rebuffed. I also hated that I felt so weak and vulnerable. Especially when I knew she was probably right.

“Liz. I’m tired. We’ll talk when you get home. Okay?”

“Sure,” I’d said, feeling helpless.

The helpless feeling carried over to the next morning as I stared up at the unfamiliar ceiling, trying to convince myself to get up and go to the hospital.

The message light is flashing on the bedside phone, and I wonder why I hadn’t noticed it the night before. I pick up the receiver, punch in a few numbers and listen. It is Grace. She had left the message at five o’clock that morning, and I can’t help wondering what she was doing up and so alert at that hour.

I listen groggily as she says that she got my message yesterday and wants to meet me for brunch at ten o’clock. She rattles off the name and address of her favorite diner, and I have to rewind the message and listen to it twice to make sure I get it right.

With two hours to kill, I pull on my sneakers and decide to go for a jog. I don’t want to think about Grace. I am already emotionally drained. The added knowing that I am about to see her for the first time in five years makes my nerves feel raw and exposed.

I am excited and sick to my stomach all at once. The last time we’d met hadn’t gone very well. But we’ve kept in touch since then, sporadically over the years, especially since the advent of e-mail. Perhaps all of the tension is behind us. Maybe the past is finally in the past. But our lives have intertwined in the oddest ways since we first met. It is difficult to believe even now that there isn’t somehow some significance in our meeting again.

As my feet methodically hit the pavement, I count backward, trying to figure out how long it has been since we were together. The first time. Our versions of the same story were, I knew, dramatically different.

In her mind, I simply dumped her. Crushed her. Devastated her.

In my mind, it was never so easy. Nothing about Grace ever was. She was so young. All sweetness and innocence rolled up together. Those cow-brown eyes would look at me, and I would tremble in their pure honesty. I was never so deserving.

First of all, by then I’d been around the block. More times than I could even count. I was older than she was. Granted, by only five years, but the difference between my twenty-four and her nineteen years could be measured in ways more telling than simply time. I was hard. She was soft. I was cynical. She was trusting. I was raised in a single-parent, blue-collar home where none of the children even dreamed of college. She was born to a family where savings bonds were purchased and safely tucked away as a simple matter of course.

Connie had been gone for three months, and I was having difficulty adjusting to my life without her. I had seen Grace at the bar many times while I was with Connie. I continued to notice her over the several months after Connie left. But Grace and I had never even said a word to each other. We played by all the unspoken rules.

The bar was separated into two specific groups. The older, die-hard dykes kept their distance from the college, preppy crowd.