tried. Last night’s freak-out already felt filmy and faraway; I remembered the jagged panic but couldn’t actually pull it up again.
The text came an hour later, right as I wasn’t thinking about him.
“Hey,” it began, and I read it in Michael’s voice: “How’s your week?”
I leaned a few inches back, as if to distance myself from it. Michael. I thought of all the energy I’d spent on Lloyd when I was too young to know better—when I was indomitable and upbeat, convinced things would work out okay just because I’d seen a glimmer of a beginning. I thought of Josh, smiling at me over a pizza slice as the East River rushed by behind him. Again and again, I’d been so quick to disregard the million other ways things could turn out, the possibilities funneling out of Point A like latticework.
I texted back: “Can I call you?”
I saw him beginning to answer, but it didn’t come through for thirty maddening seconds: “Sure.”
It was an awkward conversation, as these kinds of chats always are—the first time we’d talked voice to voice in almost four weeks. Four weeks when I hadn’t, for the first time, asked him to see me, testing the theory that if I stopped, he might evaporate like dew. He listened as I rattled off something about needing to feel respected even when I’m just casually dating, something about feeling like I was at the end of his priority list. I said, “This isn’t working,” like an actor with a script. He was so quiet. I pictured him fading away as he listened, becoming more and more transparent until he whiffed away like smoke.
“I’m sorry,” he said, when I reached the end of my soliloquy. His voice was as diaphanous as I’d expected, molecules and air. “Guess I fucked up.”
It hung there, and for a single second something split open in front of me, an alternate ending where he promised to do better and made a grand gesture and everything changed, so solid and real. It flashed in front of me and then blinked out just as quickly. The silence buzzed.
“Well, good luck with everything,” I said, to pierce it.
“You, too,” he said, and that was that. After we’d hung up, I found Alex’s number in my contacts list and I stared at it for a moment before blocking it.
* * *
On Sunday, I woke up to an email from Mrs. Iredale. The subject line read “YOUR VIDEO,” and my blood frosted over when I saw it. She knows about the Flip cam video.
Dear Lindsay,
I thought I had your email and I’m glad to see I have it here. You said you were putting together a video in memory of Edie and if you do, I would like to see a copy very much. I looked around to see if I have more videos to share with you but I don’t since we never did have a video camera. I am of course thinking of her with the anniversary coming up this week and the video could be nice, and if you are free on Wednesday morning I always visit Summit Rock in Central Park on the anniversary, which was Edie’s favorite place to play in the park when she was little. It is near West 83rd St. You are probably working but I thought I would ask. Should you wish to come along please call me before then. My number is in my email signature below.
Best,
Susan
Well, shit. The made-up commemorative video. Had she really been overcome with sentimentality, or was she calling my bluff?
At least she’d given me a reason to call her. Instinctively, I fumbled around for my phone, then groaned. I opened Skype on my laptop and turned off the video function—no need for Mrs. Iredale to see me in my pajamas. Then I copied and pasted in her number and listened to Skype’s echoey ringing tone.
“Susan Iredale,” she intoned. Why hadn’t she changed her name when she remarried?
“This is Lindsay Bach. I just got your email.”
“Oh, good.”
I swallowed. “Finding footage for the video has actually been a little trickier than I thought,” I said. “I spoke with some of our other friends, but it’s actually hard to access video files from that long ago.”
“I don’t doubt it. That’s why I was surprised you were making it.”
I sighed. “I really appreciated your reaching out. I can send over a few clips I found, just of the Calhoun crew kinda hanging out.” A couple of