Page 64 of That's Not a Thing

The way she keeps looking toward her lap says that really, it’s not fine, that it was frightening, but she doesn’t want to discuss it anymore.

“So, um, I quit my job?” It comes out as a question, and I realize I’m anxious to know her opinion, worried she’ll be disappointed in me, that I’m not on the same kind of ascending trajectory as her superstar son.

“I heard.” She smiles as though she’s proud. She doesn’t ask why I haven’t mentioned it sooner. “Aaron was really happy for you.”

“He told you?”

“Last night.” She shifts in her seat, like she didn’t mean to bring him into the conversation.

“I think we’re really finished, Aaron and I,” I say.

She’s quiet for a moment as she fiddles with the fringe on her navy purse. “It’s hard for him,” she says gently. “His world may simply be too cut-and-dried to allow for the shades of gray that you explored. I asked him what exactly he thought was going to happen when you moved your ex into the room across the hall. Of course the situation spun out of his control. There are worse things in life than kisses, than a little ambiguity, but he didn’t want to hear it.” She sighs. “You’ve betrayed his trust.” She’s not argumentative, just remarking.

Whatdidhe think was going to happen? I suddenly wonder. What possessed Aaron to insist on inviting Wesley into our apartment after I retracted the suggestion? As I pull and stretch the question that Gladys has asked, turning it this way and that, trying to consider what Aaron might have imagined, I suddenly realize that it was a test; the whole crazy living arrangement was engineered by Aaron, and it was a test—a test that I failed. He was already skeptical about my feelings for Wesley back in May, back when he encouraged me to visit Wesley at the restaurant, when he then co-opted my idea about living together. He was giving me an opportunity to prove my commitment to our future, and what I verified instead were my lingering feelings for Wesley. I should have realized that Aaron, a man who always needs to be in control, a man who thinks through his every move, was not relinquishing control of anything by luring Wesley into the apartment. No, he was creating a deliberately constructed experiment, and by jumping into Wesley’s lap, I proved his hypothesis. Heartbreak is simply a by product of the results he obtained. I want to be angry that he set me up, but I’m the one who failed the test.

“I guess I’m going to have to live with this outcome for the rest of my life,” I finally answer, as I tilt my head back toward the ceiling and try to prevent too much emotion from slipping forth.

“Oh, honey,” she says, and I realize how pathetic I must seem, stalking my ex-fiancé’s sick mother and complaining about my failed relationship.

“You’ll find someone,” she tells me, and I think if she’d been sitting closer to me, she might as well have bumped my chin up with an encouraging nudge of her fist.

The fact that she believes Aaron really isn’t coming back causes actual physical pain in a part of my body that I can’t pinpoint. I thought I had started moving on to acceptance of my failure, but the disappointment I feel at her words tells me I was still secretly harboring hope. I attempt to let the truth sink in, to bask in the epic proportions of my errors, as Gladys continues talking.

“It’s obvious that young men like you plenty. You’ll have men banging down your door in no time—you’ll see. You’re what the teenagers call a ‘dick magnet.’”

“Gladys!” I laugh at her uncharacteristic profanity.

“What?” Her cheeks pink up as she shrugs, only a little sheepish. “My friend Myrna taught me that. Her daughters, you know.” She waves her hand in the air dismissively. “So, tell me about the job hunt.”

I force myself to switch gears, to push my sorrow into a different mental corridor, like kicking dirty clothing under the bed to deal with at a later time. I start telling Gladys about the refugee organizations that I’ve been contacting, and she asks a flurry of excited questions.

Before I know it, Mitch is back in the room with our bagels. I hold mine on my lap, wrapped in its white, waxy paper, as I continue explaining the missions of the different organizations to Gladys and now Mitch, too. The smell of fresh lox and toasted bread reaches my nose and my appetite is back, despite my emotions.

Half a bagel later, the nurse returns, telling Gladys that she is finished with her treatment for the day and can head home shortly. As the perky blond woman removes the tubes and needles, I see Gladys’s shoulders sag with relief, and I think about how difficult this day must have been for her. I wish she would tell Aaron about her condition already and at least take that one weight off her shoulders.

“Can I come back?” I ask Gladys. “When you have your next treatment?”

“Of course, dear.” She starts loading various items into her oversize purse: a small notebook, a paperback book with a plantation home on the cover. “Only”—her eyes catch mine and then quickly shift away—“just check in with me. At some point, I will eventually break the news to my son, and I’m sure it’ll be more comfortable for everyone if you two aren’t both here at the same time.”

I know she doesn’t mean harm, but my knees nearly buckle at her words.

“Right.” I force myself to sound chipper, airy. “That makes sense. Okay, stay in touch.” I give her a quick kiss on the cheek and head out of the room before she can see the tears that are about to spill from my eyes.

A FEW DAYSlater, as I walk into to the apartment from a job interview, feeling cautiously optimistic about this one thing, I hear voices coming from Wesley’s room. A woman. I can’t imagine he has found some new paramour and brought her home, but still, I decide it’s best not to bother them. Instead, I make my way toward the chocolate chip cookie dough ice cream that I know is waiting in the freezer. I open a messy drawer to look for the ice cream scooper, the one with the cow-shaped handle that Aaron bought randomly at the mall near my parents’ house last year. I run the scoop under some scalding water in hopes of warming it sufficiently to soften the ice cream and ease its removal from the container. I’m about to turn the water off when I hear Wesley and his guest making their way from the bedroom toward the main room of the apartment.

I look up to see a heavyset Asian woman wearing scrubs with little pictures of Homer Simpson all over them. She’s carrying a large cardboard box that’s wider than she is and tall enough to hide the top half of her body and the bottom of her face.

“He’ll be really grateful to have these,” she says as she ambles toward the door, Wesley following in his wheelchair.

“Hi,” I say, and they both look in my direction, apparently surprised I’m here.

“Hey,” Wesley rasps. He clears his throat, a quiet rumble, and continues, “This is Peggy. She’s helping me get ready for the move.”

“Hi, Peggy.” I smile politely, trying not to let it show that I am forlorn about Wesley’s impending departure. I hate that he is journeying to a new home in order to more peacefully end his days. I keep thinking of salmon swimming upstream as they prepare to die. That’s when I notice Wesley’s wheelchair.

“Your new chair came!” I exclaim.

“Yeah, finally,” he says. “They delivered it this morning right after you left. Lots of bells and whistles.” He makes a nearly imperceptible movement with his hand, and the motorized chair spins in a proud circle.