Two of a Kind (25 page)

“Pushy
Jew
, isn't that what you mean?”

“I never said that—you did! But how dare you make such a scene? Who asked you to intervene—”

“Where are you anyway?” he interrupted.

“In my car, on my way to the theater. A place
you
had no business being, I might add.”

“Forget the theater. Come to St. Luke's Hospital.”

“St. Luke's? What for?”

“Your daughter has just been admitted. After I wasn't able to talk any sense into her, she went into the theater, where she promptly collapsed in the dressing room. She was rushed to the ER; fortunately, I was still hanging around, so I saw the ambulance pull up and I waited. Damn good thing I did, too.” His voice was grim.

“Maybe it's nerves, or she's feeling light-headed from not having eaten. I couldn't persuade her to have any dinner; she said her stomach was unsettled and—”

“You and your fucking denial!” he shouted. “It's not
nerves
and she's
not
feeling
light-headed
. She's got
meningitis
, for God's sake! And not only that, it's been exacerbated by how goddamn thin she is; she's got a pretty serious eating disorder that you haven't wanted to deal with.” He paused, as if gathering steam for the finale. “Now get your ass up here as quickly as you can. Call when you're outside and I'll tell you exactly where we are. They're still doing some tests.” And before Christina could utter another word, he abruptly ended the call.

The time between the end of the phone call and Christina's arrival at the hospital were the longest and most agonizing minutes in her life as a mother.
Jordan has
meningitis,
she kept repeating to herself as she headed toward the hospital. Her daughter had meningitis and she hadn't even
known
. She was a terrible mother, terrible person. If Jordan were to
die
—but she would not let herself go there. If she did, she would crumple right here, right now, and never make it to the hospital where Jordan lay waiting. Ignoring the tears that seemed to have materialized on her face, she drove to St. Luke's, mouthing prayers she had not uttered in two decades—
Hail Mary, full of grace.
When she arrived, she left the car in a spot that had a clear No Parking sign posted. Let the city give her a ticket or tow it. She didn't care.

She called Andy as soon as she was inside the doors. Jordan was in the ICU; she saw Andy conferring with a white-coated doctor in the corridor. When he saw her, he introduced her to the attending physician and then took her hand. She was so grateful he was there.

“It's bacterial,” said the doctor, whose name tag read
ZACHERY MARVIN
. “We usually give penicillin and cefotaxime, but we're seeing a lot of resistance to penicillin these days. So I've got her on a drip of vancomycin and cefotaxime; let's see how she does. On the whole I'm optimistic, though.”

Christina just nodded stupidly; she was too numb to process what was being said. “Can her mother see her?” Andy asked Dr. Marvin, and when he said yes, Christina donned a mask and gown to enter the ICU. “I'll wait for you here,” Andy told her.

Jordan lay in the bed, looking pale and positively emaciated. How had Christina not seen how thin she was before? What else had she missed? Guilt gripped her throat, cutting off her air, and she had to take deep breaths or she thought she would pass out.

There were tubes in Jordan's arms but nothing in her mouth; her breathing was rapid and shallow. Her eyes were closed, and against her pallid cheeks, her lashes looked dark and spidery.

“Sweetheart, can you hear me?” said Christina through the mask. Jordan's eyelids fluttered open and then closed again. But when Christina put her hand in Jordan's, Jordan pressed back. She remained at Jordan's bedside, tears trickling silently down her face, wetting the mask. Her nose grew clogged, but she would not budge; in that moment, Christina believed that her hand in Jordan's was the sole current that kept her child alive. It was only when Dr. Marvin returned that she allowed herself to be led away.

“She's stable for now,” he said. “And you look spent. Why not have a cup of coffee in the cafeteria and then come back up? I've got your cell number now; your husband gave it to me.”
Husband?
thought Christina. Suddenly she wished he were her husband; she needed him in a way she had not realized until now. She did not correct the doctor but took the elevator with Andy down to the cafeteria.

“Thank God you were there,” she kept saying as he got coffee, milk, and sugar and directed her to a table. “Thank God you saved her.” Andy said nothing. It was only when they had sat down together that she was able to focus on how serious he looked. “Dr. Marvin says she's all right,” she told him. “She's going to pull through.” She ignored the coffee he placed in front of her and grasped his hand, bringing the knuckles to her lips to kiss.

But Andy gently extricated himself. “I'm as grateful and relieved as you are that she's going to be all right,” he began. “She's going to need some help, though. Help and clear direction. And you're the one who's going to have to give it to her—alone.”

“What are you talking about?” This was how she had felt when she first encountered Dr. Marvin—she heard the words, but they made no sense.

“I'm talking about us, Christina. Or rather—the end of us.”

“Why?” she cried, not even caring whether anyone around might hear her. “Why now?”

“We're too different. You called me pushy—”

“I'm sorry! I was frantic; can't you see that?”

“But on some level, that is how you feel about me: too pushy, too loud, too
Jewish
. There's always something I'll do or say wrong, some way in which I'll transgress. I don't want to live walking on eggshells around you. That's why I think we should end it—before either of us gets even more hurt.”

“No.” She shook her head. “Please no.” She was
whimpering
for God's sake.

“I'm sorry, Christina. It all became clear to me when I was waiting for you to get here. I can see the pattern and I can see it repeating itself. I piss you off and I'm going to keep pissing you off. I'll never make you happy.” He placed his hand on her cheek for a moment; then he stood and left her staring at the now stone-cold coffee.

J
ordan's hospital room was filled with brightly colored balloons; they had gravitated toward a corner of the ceiling and were set quivering by the warm air blasting from the heating ducts on the wall. Jordan closed her eyes so she wouldn't have to see them.

She'd missed performing in the Winter Ball. Missed it entirely, all because she'd gotten some stupid infection. And as if that weren't bad enough, the doctor had said that her body needed to be stronger—a code word for
fatter
—to fight it successfully. Another girl wore the Russian peasant costume and got to perform the lively, folk-dance-inspired steps. Another girl took the bow and the applause—her applause.

There would be other dances, other costumes, said her mother, Alexis, and all the girls from SAB who'd come to visit her, and even Ms. Bonner, who had shown up with a plush teddy bear wearing a pink tutu and pink ballet slippers on its chubby teddy feet. “You're still the same dancer you were before you got sick,” Ms. Bonner said. “Now you get better and come back to class as soon as you can.” The teddy bear sat across from Jordan on the windowsill, the bitterest of consolation prizes.

“Good morning, sweetheart.” Jordan opened her eyes. There was her mother, standing at the doorway.

“Hi,” said Jordan. She closed her eyes again. When she opened them, Christina had sat down in the chair next to the bed.

“How are you feeling today?” her mother asked.

“Better. I guess.”

“The doctor says you can come home soon—maybe as soon as tomorrow. You won't be able to go back to school or class right away; you'll have to build up your strength first.”

“You mean gain weight,” said Jordan, glaring at her mother as if she held her personally responsible for this.

“Well, a little, yes—,” said her mother.

“I'm not anorexic. I'm not!” Jordan said.

“No one said you were anorexic, Jordan,” Christina began. “You're just very thin, and—”

“And I'm not bulimic either! I hate throwing up.”

“You're getting all upset,” her mother said. “Try to calm down.”

“I am calm.” But of course she wasn't. And she didn't want to talk about this anymore. To change the subject she said, “You can take some of these flowers home if you want. How about those—aren't they nice? Andy sent them.” The lavish floral arrangement dominated one corner of the room. Christina turned but said nothing. “I'm sorry for getting so mad at him, Mom. I guess he kind of saved my life. At least that's what they told me.”

“It's true,” said Christina. Her voice sounded strangled. “He did. If it hadn't been for him, you really might have died. I didn't know you were so sick; you hid it from me.”

“I know.” Not only had Jordan experienced that blinding headache, but her neck was stiff and she'd felt nauseated too—all classic signs of the disease.

“And when I think I could have lost you—” Christina put her face in her hands and began to cry.

“Mom! I'm all right! I didn't die.” Jordan sat up straighter against the pillows. “What's the matter, anyway?” Christina didn't answer. “Is it something else?”

“It is.”

“Tell me,” she said. She already knew, though.

“It's Andy. He decided we should break up.”

“Oh,” said Jordan. “I'm sorry.” Was she?

“So am I,” said Christina. Even though there was a big box of tissues sitting nearby, she rooted around in her purse until she found a handkerchief; Jordan could not remember ever seeing her mother use a tissue. “I'm sorry. I didn't mean to burden you.” Jordan didn't know what to think. She should be happy now, right? She hated him. Or at least she used to, and now she had her wish—he and her mom had broken up. So why did she feel so bad?

Two days later, Jordan was still in bed but this time at home. The balloons and flowers had trickled off a bit, but she had plenty of visitors, including Alexis, Ella, and Oliver. Jordan was surprised when her mom showed him into her room. She knew he'd been hanging around her mother a lot these past few months, and she'd seen him at church too. But now that Andy was not going to be a part of their lives, she'd assumed he'd just kind of disappear. Wrong. He came in carrying a glossy shopping bag that said
Dylan's Candy Bar
across its brightly striped front and handed it to her. “Just some stuff to make you feel better,” he said, settling himself into a chair.

“Also to make me fatter.”

“Well, yeah.”

“I don't know why everyone is still harping on that,” said Jordan. But she peeked inside the bag. There was a necklace made of candy, candy dots stuck to a long strip of paper, licorice twists, jawbreakers wrapped in cellophane. Kid stuff. Silly stuff. “Thanks,” she said.

“Glad you like it.” He smiled. “So, when are you going back to school?”

“Next week,” she said. “Ballet class the week after. But I have to gain at least three pounds first. Preferably five.”

“It won't even show,” he said.

“Not to you, maybe. I'll see every ounce.”

“Must be rough having to worry about all that shit.”

“It's my life,” she said simply. “I'm used to it.” He seemed to be studying her. “How's your dad, anyway? He sent me these really nice flowers in the hospital.”

Oliver shrugged. “Same as ever, I guess.”

“That night at the theater? When I fainted?” Oliver nodded. “I
hated
him. I yelled at him when he tried to get me to leave with him; the security guard came over and made him leave. And even after all the horrible things I said, he stuck around, and went with me to the hospital in the ambulance.” She leaned back, exhausted from the recollection. “I never got to thank him for that. Not really. Not the way I should have. And now he's gone and broken up with my mom, and she's so sad all the time. I don't get it.”

“Neither do I,” Oliver said. “But I wish he'd change his mind.”

“Do you think he might?” asked Jordan. She couldn't believe she was even asking this question.

“I can't tell. He can be really stubborn sometimes.”

Jordan closed her eyes. “I think I need to take a nap,” she said. “I get really tired all of a sudden.”

“Sure,” Oliver said, standing up. “I'll be back.” He ambled over to the rabbit cage and inserted a finger through the wire mesh.

“Careful,” Jordan said. “She might think you're a carrot and take a bite.”

“Would you do that?” Oliver said to the bunny as he stroked her head. She remained where she was and her baby—practically as big as she was now—was huddled right behind her.

The days in bed, away from school and ballet class, almost didn't count—she was so weak that she slept most of the time. It was when she was allowed back to school, but not to ballet class, that she really suffered. The doctor had told her she couldn't return until she gained three pounds. But even though she'd agreed, she found she couldn't do it; her throat felt like it was closing up and she wanted to gag whenever she ate something rich or fattening, like the gross milk shakes her mother was always waving in her face. Brenda, the therapist her mom was forcing her to see, told her she was having this reaction because she had a distorted body image.

“You still think you're going to get fat, obese even, if you allow yourself to gain any weight at all,” she said, sitting across from Jordan in her Upper East Side office with its soft couch, overstuffed armchair, and thick rug.

“No, I don't,” Jordan said, but it was a lie. That was exactly what she thought. And coming to the office only confirmed her fear; even the
furniture
in here was fat. But she would not be allowed back in ballet class unless she saw Brenda, so she nodded her head and pretended to consider the therapist's words seriously.

The second week out of bed, she went to SAB, not to take class, but to watch. Francesca was at the head of the barre and in the front row during the center work. It seemed to Jordan that she had gotten even better during the last few weeks. The line of her arabesque was like an arrow, pointing up toward the sky; her turns—she routinely did three pirouettes—were easy and graceful, like the revolving of a top. And she was so thin! How come no one was pestering
her
to gain weight? Jordan was so upset she had to leave before the allegro.

When she finally did return to ballet class, she was shaky. The barre was okay. But when she got to the center, she was a mess. And forget about jumping. “Don't push yourself,” Ms. Bonner told her after class.
What are you talking about?
Jordan wanted to scream.
Of course I have to push myself. If I don't push myself, I'm
nothing
—don't you get it?
When class was over, Alexis and a couple of the other girls wanted to hang out, but she couldn't leave fast enough.

On Broadway, it was cool but the sky had a springlike brightness to it; now that it was April, the dark didn't come so suddenly and so hard. She came to the subway station and on impulse kept walking. She'd get on at the next station. Jordan thought about how much she had lost in such a short time, and how hard she would have to work to get it back. She came to the next subway station, at Fifty-third Street and Seventh Avenue. But she did not descend the steps and she walked on, until she'd reached the crazy, pulsating hub of Times Square. The gigantic billboards, flashing lights, and frenetic pace made her feel dizzy for a minute, dizzy and weak, like she'd felt that night at the theater when Andy had tried to stop her from performing.

She continued south, past Times Square, until she came to the big box on Thirty-fourth Street that was Macy's Department Store. When she was little, she and her mom used to come here at Christmas, to visit Santa, and then to see the tree at Rockefeller Center. “It's even bigger than the tree in
The Nutcracker
,” she'd said. As she continued to walk in the fading spring light, Jordan thought about that first night in the hospital. Sick as she'd been, she had stared at the digital clock by her bed, thinking, “Now I'd be doing the
pas de chat
, and now comes the little waltzy thing.” But if Andy hadn't shown up, she might have gone into a coma; she might have
died
. Then there would be no more
pas de chat
, no more waltzes, no more anything. She owed Andy Stern an apology; she really did. How to tell him, though? Call or text? Give him a message through Oliver? She thought about it pretty much nonstop for two days. Then the answer just hit her, and after her next therapy session, she walked over to the office whose address she'd found on Google; it turned out to be only a few blocks away.

“Do you have an appointment?” said the receptionist when she walked in.

Jordan shook her head vigorously. She had, with revulsion, gained a whole pound and a half; did this woman think she was actually pregnant or that she wanted to be? Eww. “Just tell him Jordan is here to see him.” She waited a beat and added, “Please.”

“Well, he's with a patient now,” the receptionist said. “You'll have to wait.”

Jordan sat down and began to flip through a magazine entitled
Modern Prenatal Medicine
.
Gross. But not as gross as the hugely pregnant woman sitting across from her; her belly, big as a beach ball, strained against the front of her dress. Jordan put the magazine down and unzipped her backpack. She had to have some work in here she could do. She had just finished her math when Andy, dressed in a white doctor's coat, stepped into the waiting room.

“Jordan,” he said. “What a surprise. Won't you come in?”

She followed him into a small room with a big, dark desk and three chairs; one large padded one was on his side and two smaller ones were on the other. Taking the one nearest to the door, she sat down.

“So you're better,” he said.

“All better.” How awkward was
this
?

“And you came to tell me that?”

“Uh, no. I came to tell you I was sorry. And to thank you. For everything you did that night. I know I wasn't very nice.”

“You were a brat,” he said. Affronted, Jordan sucked in her breath, but he just continued. “I understood, though. It was a clear case of
kill the messenger
. I'm just glad that things turned out the way they did.”

How about my mom?
she wanted to ask
. Are you glad about that too?
But the intercom buzzed and he picked up. She watched while he listened intently and then he put the phone down and stood.

“I'm sorry,” he said. “Emergency.”

“Oh, yeah, sure,” she said. Maybe he had to deliver a baby—or two—right away. She stood too and headed for the door. Even though she didn't look back, she could tell he wasn't paying attention to her anymore. As far as Andy Stern was concerned, she was already gone. What did she expect anyway? When he was dating her mom, he had a reason to be nice. Now there was none. Deflated, she left the office and walked toward the subway. She would have never guessed that being snubbed by Andy Stern would have hurt quite so much.