Love from London (29 page)

“I’m almost ready, hang on,” I say.

“No,” she scrambles around my room, throwing items into a bag. “We’re taking you…”

“How much stuff could I possibly need to bring punting?” I ask. “I lent my heavy sweater to Keena, anyway, so…”

“Fuck the sweaters,” Arabella hands the bag to Asher, who, through some unspoken sibling lingo gets what she’s doing and continues to pile things in. “Love.” Arabella stands before me. “You know that emergency ticket your dad gave you?”

“Yeah?” my voice cracks when I suddenly click in.

“You’re gonna need to use it,” she says.

The next hours are a blur of travel, talking, tears. Mable went into the hospital again, fever spiking, trouble breathing, possible sepsis, and while there, found that the cancer has spread to her other breast, some axillary lymphnodes.

“Just pray that it’s not in the blood,” Dad said when I called him from Arabella’s phone on the way to Heathrow. “You wanted me to be forthright with you, so I am. I love you. I’m glad you’re coming back.” That he’s glad I’m coming back had two sides — one, he misses me and two — Mable is critical.

We left the flat in a complete hurricane of academic papers, clothing, souvenirs, my journal. Asher rounded up Fizzy and Keena who came to say goodbye, Keena looking really off — probably just concerned, Fizzy scared for me, for Mable, but really liking her job at HEL. She brought over an envelope from Clementine, which she said contains Martin Eisenstein’s info, among other things.

Arabella walks me to the passport check-in and hugs me goodbye at which point I burst into tears. I stand there, sobbing.

“I hate that I’m leaving so quickly,” I say.

“I know,” she says and wipes the tears that are streaming down her own cheeks. “But you’ll be back, right? This can’t be it. No. We’ll just figure out a way to get you back here, k?”

“K.”

“I’ll call you every day,” she says. “And I’ll explain to all your teachers, or get your work for you, or whatever.”

“Thanks,” I say. Asher has been standing off to the side, waiting for us to finish. Once Arabella kisses my cheeks again, she backs away and Asher steps forward.

I look at his face, the color creeping up into his cheeks the way it did on the London Eye. His eyes are sad, taking all of me in.

“I’m just so sorry,” he says.

“Me, too,” I nod. There’s so much feeling here I can’t even hug him, can’t bring myself to touch him. But finally he does, he kisses me and I taste my own tears in the kiss. “I don’t want to go.”

“And I don’t want you to,” he says, “but you know you have to.”

I start to cry again. My passport digs into my thigh from the front pocket of my jeans, and my Henley top is spotted with tears. “I know it’s a long way off, but — just in case I don’t get back here right away…”

“Let’s just plan that you will,” he says.

“But I might not,” I say, I can feel the defensive demon kicking in. “I might not, so I was just trying to suggest…”

“Just take it one day at…” He hugs me again. “I’m here for you.”

I can’t take it anymore, so I hug him, put my carry-on bag on my shoulder, and walk through passport control. He’s
here
for me, I think, but what about anywhere else?

As I shuffle through the lines that lead to the plane that will lead me home, I take out my reliable journal. Eight pages left. Without extra commentary, I make a list of all the random words and thoughts in my mind: Mable, blood, Dad, Vineyard, college, back here, what would have been tonight, voice-over, Asher, ask-her. I pass by Boots pharmacy, WH Smith, and then, as I’m meandering in a haze to my gate, I see a pile of newspapers. Always looking for on board distractions, I pick up a couple of the cats-off papers. Then I see it: me, Arabella, Tobias, and enough of the prince boy that he’s identifiable. Our club photo (which Asher said he had gotten away from the guy) is smack-dab in the middle of the front page of
Top Star
, the celebrity rag. I keep it with me, but don’t even know how to react.

On board Virgin (irony duly noted) Atlantic’s flight to Boston, the welcome music is familiar — strumming, musak version, but familiar. The notes get stuck in my brain as my carry-on gets stuck under the seat in front of me, all my emotional baggage weighs too much to fit in the overhead compartments. I open the music and video channel guide to find out the song before it drives me crazy.

Then I see it: “Like the London Rain” By Clementine Highstreet. Of course. Thankfully, it doesn’t lead into
Be Here, Be Now
, but I go through those lyrics in my head as we take off for whatever waits for me on the large expanse of ocean. Then, as I’m quoting the song in my head, I look at the finer print, the other credits — “Like the London Rain” 1990 re-release (no wonder it didn’t register right away) on Gala Records. Gala. My mother=Galadriel. Could it be the same? I slip the idea away into the safety of my journal and look out the window at London. The Be Here, Be Now lyrics echo in my head
someday you’ll leave, let time pull you away, and I’ll be left with only thoughts of yesterday
,
but for now just stay. Be here, be now.
I wish I could. The ground recedes, the buildings smaller, the people hidden, my England world growing farther away as the plane rises — pulling me from my rabbit hole of wonder and back to reality.

Thank you to:

Faye Bender, Anne Bohner, Michele Langley,

and the whole team at NAL.

Adam and the kids—thanks and love.

Turn the page to continue reading from the Principles of Love series

I currently have the feeling that I’m living in some twisted dream: I keep waiting to wake up and find out everything that’s happened in the past days — okay, nearly a week — was just some side-effect of bad sushi.

Except that I don’t really like sushi (okay, I like the California rolls, but that’s all). And so the chances of suffering a long-term raw fish-induced nightmare session are slim. The reality of my life right now is this: I’m curled up in bed under my plain white sheets pretending to sleep so my dad doesn’t make me get up and play a six am game of squash with him. To fight his stress level and possibly to keep his physique in top form for his new girlfriend, he’s been all about the cardio activity. He knows my body clock (among other things) is off and once he hears me wandering around up here he knocks on my door with his squash racket and tries to convince me to get court-bound.

“Endorphins help the body relax,” he explained during our game last night. The courts were locked but he opened the heavy blue metal door with his master key and held it for me. “Squash is my yoga.”

“Sounds like a bumper sticker,” I said and proceeded to get my butt whipped (figuratively speaking, of course) by my dad. There were shots I could have hit, and plenty I could have at least made the effort to reach, but I was — am — so distracted I could hardly remember to tie my shoes let alone get my hand-eye coordination to comply.

So now I’m in bed, trying to lull myself back into a REM cycle, but failing. Sleep is my yoga. Except not. I’ve been here (here=Hadley Hall in all its prep school springtime glory, not my bed) for around a week, having left London and my finally gush-worthy love-life behind, but I haven’t succeeded in registering the departure in my brain. Somehow I can’t accept that I’m not going back.

Pining for the luxurious yet understated flat I shared with Arabella, my classes that stimulated my mind and thoughts of my future, and the independent life I left across the Atlantic has been draining. Plus visiting Aunt Mable at the hospital have made the days here have the antithetical feeling to Vacation Flyby Syndrome (VFS=that feeling that anything fun just flew by so fast you hardly had time to appreciate it) leaving me with SRS — Sudden Reality Syndrome, where you’re sucked back into the normalcy of your every day life. So I’ve had a big time case of VFS, even though London wasn’t a vacation exactly, and I’ve been way bogged down by an even bigger case of SRS that’s left me semi-humorless and hermit-like.

I’ve been nearly one hundred percent successful in avoiding social run-ins on campus. I feel ghostly visiting there — like I’m semi-seen but since I haven’t been a fixture at Hadley for a whole semester, it’s like I don’t count. Plus, I’m still way jet-lagged. Who knew a five hour time change could mess with my brain state quite so much? I vaguely remember the feeling of landing in London and being overwhelmed with the need for sleep, but coming back is worse.

I’m so tired at night I’ve gone to bed no later than eight o’clock, and my mornings begin promptly at four, which is nine am in England. I’m living the life of an infant, except no one’s singing me to sleep or rocking me as the sun rises. Mainly, this is because I’m not a newborn, but it’s also because the person who would have me in their arms isn’t here. He’s three thousand miles away.

I check my watch. By now, Asher Piece, the English love of my life is probably on his fifth cup of tea at his gallery. I can see him in his oh-so-adorable clothing, traditional button downs that are always slightly rumpled, hair that’s determined to misbehave and that smile. That mouth. Those lips. Those lips I won’t be kissing for a long time. But before I get carried away with too many scenarios involving Asher appearing at my door and waking me with kisses, my sleep-deprived self arrives back at the true reality of my sudden return to prep school. Plus, I’m already awake, so that pretty much nixes that romantic scenario.

I stare at the ceiling and look for patterns in the plaster the way Dad and I used to look for shapes in the clouds. Mable. Aunt Mable is not doing well. I would say she’s doing badly but then I feel like I’m jinxing the situation, so I just tell myself that things are tough right now. Cue mental image of Mable lying in her hospital room, slipping in and out of consciousness, her face bony, her skin sallow and bruised from all the tubes and needles. Tears rush down my cheeks, dampening my pillows and making my nose run. I sit up, look for a tissue, but find none so I use the snot-factor as reason to rise and not-so-much shine as brood.

Out the window, the fields are bright green and empty. The assembly bell won’t ring for another hour, and most students are sleeping. Later, the Hadley Hallers will traipse to class slowly, reveling in their springtime-induced leisure. Yesterday, in a quick walk around campus (I’ve been avoiding putting in too much face time) it was easy to spot the usual signs that spring has sprung, that we’re in the last push of the school year: hand-holding is de rigeur for couples and uncouples, backpacks strewn on the quad, seniors tempting the disciplinary gods by sitting on the science building roof, sophomore girls showing way too much skin as they sun themselves near the LOG. The Lowenthal Outdoor Gymnasium opens its giant garage-style door (it rolls up on nice days) so people can pump up and down on the treadmill half-in, half-out of doors.

I meanwhile, am holed up in my room like it’s still winter. Which maybe, in my mind, it still is. Or rather, I’m still a season back, in London with Arabella and Asher and Fizzy and Keena and my wonderful mentor, Poppy Massa-Tonclair, one of the greatest living writers. Of course the mention of her name (did I mention it? Am I talking out loud? Note to self: seek help) brings to mind all of the work I left behind in London.

But as I look at the photograph on my bureau, the one of me and Mable dressed like trashy extras from a big-hair video circa 1986 I put aside thoughts of my recent past and focus on what’s in front of me. The picture is just a tiny reminder of such a funny day — Mable convinced me to don a lycra tube dress so tight she had to roll it on me and she wore an electric blue spandex all in one and we walked up and down Newbury Street — AKA fashion central — and laughed our asses off for no good reason other than it was damn humorous). I put the photo next to my bed and sigh.

I’m glad I’m here. I need to be back here and be with Mable — for better or for worse — she needs me and I need to feel that I’m in proximity to her, even if she’s not aware that I’m with her.

Just as I’ve mustered up the energy to go get some cardio-yoga-love myself, the phone rings. I reach for it and sit at my computer, figuring I can multi-task and print my assignments from London while talking.

“Is this the residence of a Miss Bee-you-cow-sky?” Asher enunciates each syllable so it sounds like he’s on slow motion.

“Let me see if she’s here,” I say in an overly American nasal voice — and manage to convince him I’m someone else.

“Oh, terribly sorry — I thought…” he stammers.

“It’s me, fool,” I say. “Just a few days apart and you can’t even recognize my voice?”

“Believe me, you don’t sound like that normally.” Asher sighs. I can hear street noise in the background.

“And how do I sound normally?” I ask and miss him so much it’s all I can do to keep myself from ditching everything and hailing a cab to the airport and back to London and into his arms.

“Lovely. That’s how you sound,” Asher says.

“Where are you?” I ask. “Describe your location so I can picture it.”

“Well, let me see. I’m looking around and it appears as though I’m on the corner of…no — can’t quite make out that street sign. Anyway, I’m in Hackney in front of a statue of a rather rude horse and rider. I’m meeting a client for lunch.” Then there’s a pause. I wonder if it’s one of those romantic pauses where we’re both thinking back on our time together or remembering kissing in front of a different statue or — if maybe the pause is one of those awkward ones.